The Orks of Tam'urt
by Hidden Ninja Socks
Summary: Four Orks leave their town to join up with their clans for yet another waagh! The only problem is getting there. Note: I take no responsibility for your loss of brain cells during the reading of this story or any warp holes appearing in your head! I also do not take responsibility for your skin turning green and any sudden appetite for fungus beer and squig pie.
1. Prologue: 'Ow It All Began

**The Orks of Tam'urt**

If yer waz ter evuh ask someones what does Orkses do best, den yer prob'ly get dis: "Dey fights real good!" 'N, "Dey'z real good at bashin', stabbin', stompin', chompin' an' dey'z mean, too!"

Yup. We lives ter fight, we does! Da whole lot'v us, from da runts to da big squig eataz, like da big WAAGH! Boss and dem Nobz! Hur, hur… Even all da way ta dis 'ere muck 'ole planet. Even if it means fightin' uver Orkses. Anyways, if yer like, can I tellz ya a story? If ya can't read den SHUT YA YAP 'OLE! (Coz dis is a story abouts stabby, bashy, explody, shooty, funny stuffs but mostly it's 'bout how we wentz to da big WAAAAGH!). It all started like dis…

* * *

**Prologue:**'Ow It All Began

Say of Da Day: _"I'__s__'__ll make somefin__'__ ta shut ya gab, how__'__s dat sound?" __–__ Grug (aka "Grudge")_

* * *

Mumzy was very good at telling other Orks (and their cousin species) what to do; she was an extremely large Nob who was more than capable of putting even the most brutish of her brethren into line. She had been to many battles, and stomped on many heads – she had an entire room dedicated to her favourite waagh trophies inside her hut (unfortunately, there were few skulls thanks to her stompyness).

Ever since Hargut's accident, producing meat for "da boyz" was at the top of her to-do list (…okay, so maybe beating up trespassers came in equal first). Initially the Nob was quite offended when her Waaghboss retired her to such an offensively dull and uneventful task. It took Waaghboss Gotshik Buguts Frag'ead over twelve hours to convince Mumzy that "feedin' da boyz" was as important as beating the living hell out of their enemies.

Truth be told, it wasn't – but Gotshik knew it was getting to a point where Mumzy was causing more casualties in their tribe than in the enemies, and something had to be done (without causing more casualties… Mumzy was a very temperamental Ork who got offended easily).

Hargut, a warbiker, had been ordered to drive Mumzy and a small Ork yoof named Jamz to Tam'urt where Gotshik's tribe owned a small squig farm. Mumzy had demanded that Jamz go with her; Gotshik wisely allowed the yoof to go so as to avoid another argument with the moody Nob. One less yoof was nothing to worry about; there were plenty more to swell the ranks of his army.

Jamz had been spawned from Mumzy's spores (it was pure coincidence the pair ever met at all); unlike boy Orks, who released a trickle of Orkoid fungal spores during their lives and a mass of spores when they died, 'girls' released copious amounts of spores while alive and healthy; to do so required a change in body chemicals, resulting in unusually violent or strange moods, even for an Ork. The increased spore production made girls smell a little mouldy or dusty, and taxed their bodies, making them grow slower. This stunted growth rate, combined with ever increasingly grizzly aggression, mood swings comparable if not worse than a Madboy's, and the mouldy smell that eventually came from large girls, was the prime indicators or girlishness. Sometimes, these Orks were called Girlboys; an Ork was still 'wun ov da boyz' even if they were a little weird smelling, and a tad bit pushy for their size. Apart from this, there was very little difference between Ork boys and Ork girls physically.

To accommodate the giant Nob and Jamz, the head of the Meks modified Hargut's bike. It was fitted with a side cart, a more powerful engine, and a reinforced frame. The journey took a full week of almost solid driving along a well-worn trader's route which passed through the mountains, over the grasslands and into the dessert. Hargut had been chosen for the journey because he was less likely to be throttled by Mumzy – many of the Ork warbikers had crossed the Nob from time to time, and Mumzy had the memory of an elephant. It was not unlike her to get back at an Ork who had stirred her up many months, even years, in the past.

On arrival at the squig farm, Hargut had hung around for a few days to recuperate (get drunk at the local pub and eat lots of squig pie). He would never return to his tribe; he was prevented from doing so when he was involved in a bike accident.

He had driven back to the squig farm one afternoon; as he went to pull up in the garage, his brakes failed and he and his bike drove through the wall and into a junk pile – Hargut had been speared in the head by a metal pole. There wasn't any Doks close enough to save him, and thus Hargut died due to severe lack of grey matter (most of it was stuck on the end of the pole).

Mumzy dragged Hargut's crumpled bike back into the garage, where it sat for many years to come, and remorselessly fed his body to the squigs. After that day, Mumzy took control of the squig farm.

Previously, Slavers and their mobs of Gretchin had tended to the beasts. The Slavers didn't argue with Mumzy taking charge but were not so keen on the idea. However, within several months to a year later, the farm's production had increased three fold and the Slavers quickly agreed that Mumzy was the best thing that had happened to the farm. The increased productivity was due to three things: Hargut's death, which triggered a massive release of spores, Mumzy's formidable presence which deterred would-be thieves and helped prevent dissention, and her own spores.

Hargut's spores produced mainly fungus with which to feed the squigs, more Gretchin with which to tend the squigs, and even more squigs. In later years, his remaining dormant spores would grow into cocoons which gave birth to baby Orks. Mumzy kept a close eye on the Ork yoofs, and kept them at the farm.

Jamz had grown into a large Nob with a temper almost as hot as Mumzy's. Thanks to the squig farm, he was able to buy the most luxurious items his tribe could provide, including mega armour. He often went back to Gotshik's tribe to participate in battles but he always returned during the peaceful (boring) times to the farm; the local pub was entertaining at any time of the year. After one particularly long and brutal waagh with the Goffs, Jamz returned to find Mumzy had the company of several Ork yoofs; many of which mysteriously disappeared soon after his return. Jamz completely denied having anything to do with these disappearances, and also declined being jealous that Mumzy had her attention divided (if you call a catastrophic violence attention).

Two yoofs survived during the whole time Jamz was at the farm; one was an Ork with an uncanny ability to stitch their cuts closed and enjoyed dissecting the squigs (she soon moved onto Gretchin). Mumzy saw the yoof to be a potential Dok and kept a close eye on it – Doks were few and far between in Tam'urt. The second grew several years after, in the sidecart of Hargut's bike. After fixing the wiring of Jamz' faulty mega armour, he decided the youngest yoof might be worth keeping around and stopped trying to feed it to the squigs.

As the two yoofs grew, Mumzy was pleased with their progress; the elder of the two was indeed a Mad Dok, and had proven useful in stitching up hurt squigs, Gretchin and Slavers. Shortly after growing big enough to see over the handle bars and lift a five-foot spanner without braining herself, the younger yoof had made a hobby out of Hargut's busted bike. The two spore-brethren had girl tendencies, and so Mumzy soon named them accordingly: Cezzy-Po and Brudz; Sufficiently Orky, and yet satisfactorily suitable for girls.

Cezzy-Po and Jamz went to their first battle together when Brudz was still too young to get involved (according to Mumzy). The Mega Nob showed little compassion towards the Dok and the two didn't get along very well. Most of their time with the tribe was spent as far as away from each other as possible.

One fateful day in the climax of the waagh, Jamz hobbled back to camp with a terrible injury. His armour was torn open and his guts hung out; the tribe only had two other Doks besides Cezzy-Po, and both were no where to be seen; it was later revealed they had passed out from testing their experimental anaesthetic and sedatives on each other.

Seeing an opportunity the trainee Dok got to work putting Jamz' guts back where they should be. Jamz recovered within a day (Orks being naturally quick healers are never really bed bound from illness and injury) and ever since, treated her like a friend and claimed her to be his spore sister... not that anyone could prove, or disprove, such a claim. Cezzy's plan had worked perfectly, and she no longer feared being stomped on or eaten. Thanks to Jamz' sudden change of heart, Cezzy-Po had also found that the harassment from the larger Orks had also reduced – they feared the wrath of Jamz, and decided it was better to push someone else around for fun instead.

A few weeks after the battle was over, the two returned to Tam'urt on a trukk which was going to the farm to collect a fresh load of squigs. As was usual with his stays with the tribe, Jamz had filled Gotshik in on how the farm and Mumzy was going prior to leaving. It was the first time Jamz had mentioned the existence of his sort-of-siblings; Cezzy-Po (who was previously reported to be an Ork Jamz picked up on the way to the waagh when they arrived) and Brudz. Gotshik was pleased with the news of the young Dok and Mek (if inwardly annoyed Jamz kept this to himself until now).

When Jamz returned home, he passed on the usual message from Gotshik to Mumzy: Battle went well, many heads were stomped, and everyone's bellies were full. He then listed the deaths of Orks known to Mumzy for the sake of making her feel not so faraway from her tribe (which often helped prevent her monsterous bad moods), and gave her some gifts from the tribe (mainly more Gretchin, a Slaver or two, crates f beer, and some souvenirs from the waagh).

Brudz, the young Mek, had grown considerably taller during her elder siblings' absence; she was now as big as Cezzy-Po, but her isolation from the tribe and lack of battle experience left her slightly ignorant to certain matters of life and Ork Kulture. Mumzy decided that it was best 'for the sake of the tribe' if all three Orks left home and joined the tribe forever (well, that's what she told herself; secretly, she knew it was for the best of Jamz and the Oddgirls, as well as the farm itself). She suspected Brudz might not take well to moving away – the Mek seemed quite content to lock herself up in the garage and tinker about for hours on end. Mumzy devised a cunning plan that would begin with the start of the next waagh.


	2. Off Ta WAAAAGH!

**Chapta Wun: **Off Ta WAAAAGH!

Say of Da Day: _"_ _Time ta make choppy stuff__…"_ – Oric, Skarboy

* * *

On the outskirts of the town of Tamhurt (pronounced Tam'urt by the Ork inhabitants) the barren desert lands were made of use by the squig farmers who needed very little grass. Squigs were meat and fungus eaters, and both were abundant despite the parched landscape.

At the second largest ranch in the Tam'urt district, its owner was informing a Slaver of today's meat deliveries to be made by the Gretchin. The Gretchin were kept in line by the Slavers (often also referred to as a Runtherds), usually with threats of punishments such as being fed to the squigs or being zapped by the dreaded grot-prod (something along the lines of a cattle-prod).

The farm was more than large enough to feed Gotshik's Evil Suns tribe twice over and so extra funds were raised by selling meat to the locals. Regular deliveries were done on a weekly basis; Brudz would drive the truck, Jamz would ensure all teef were paid, and Cezzy-Po made sure nobody tried to steal the cargo. Not a single squig went unaccounted for (unless they mysteriously vanished down Jamz' gullet), and not a single teef was left owing. The locals learnt early that trying to cheat Mumzy ended most horrifically.

Slavers corralled the Gretchin and the truck began being loaded. Brudz waited behind the wheel revving the engine impatiently.

"Oi! Do yer mind?" Cezzy-Po walked up to the cabin window covered from head to toe in black soot. "Dere's only one colour I like on me white coat, an' dat's red! Stop pressin' da zoggin' go pedal!" She reached up and flicked her sister in the temple.

Cezzy-Po wore her greasy black hair (a squig-hair transplant) in two unkempt buns on the top of her head. Her lab coat (before being covered in exhaust soot) was never without a fresh stain of blood, and had many pockets bristling with surgical tools. Underneath she wore black pants and red leather boots. Wrapped around her forehead was a black bandana with a red scowling sun printed on it.

"Ow! Stupid git," Brudz whinged. She took her foot away from the 'go pedal' grumpily. "Can't dem runts load da truck fasta?"

Brudz had a greasy (almost slithering) black plait hanging from her head made from squig hair - transplanted there by her sister. The Mek wore a scrappy red singlet, filthy black leather pants (they used to be brown) and black buckle-up steel capped boots. She was a bit of a smart-mouth but usually got along well with her spore sister. This didn't prevent her being stabbed with a scalpel now and then though.

While the truck was being loaded a Gretchin messenger ran through the farm to Mumzy's office. He knocked on the door.

"Oo iz it?" A deep voice asked agitatedly. "Betta be a good reason fer disturbin' me!"

"I 'ave a message from da Boss Gotshik," The Gretchin replied casually.

Mumzy opened the uneven door and let the Gretchin in. She sat back down behind her desk; the chair sounded awfully over burdened by the way it creaked and groaned. There were no other chairs in the room, and the Gretchin could not see over the desk so he pulled over the radio and stood on it. He looked quizzically at the strange crooked glasses perched on the Nob's snout.

"Cezzy-Po prescribed me some seein' lenses," She snarled patiently trying to restrain from flattening the rude Gretchin until she got the message. "Now stop gawkin' an' tell me what Gotshik said."

Sensing his impending doom, the Gretchin pulled the radio back from the desk out of arm's reach of the Nob. "Boss Gotshik says dere's a waagh brewin' 'tween dem an' da Goffs, an' dat da Deffskulls is stirrin' shit fer fun."

Mumzy's upper lip drew up in a snarl. She was never fond of the Goffs, and the Deathskulls were nothing but a bunch of thieving braggarts in her eyes. The Deathskulls had raided squig deliveries going to the Evil Sunz tribe on the odd occasion, earning them a spot at the top of Mumzy's hit list.

Awaiting a reply which never came, the Gretchin spoke in more detail about the message from the tribe's boss. "Gotshik suggested yew 'ire someone ter escort da squig deliveries to an' from da tribe. Da Boss also suggested dat yew up da security of da farm. Dere's been reports of Goffs lurkin' in da desert souf of 'ere."

Mumzy nodded slowly. She was already deciding what actions she would take to protect the squig farm and secure the supply of meat to the tribe. "I know just da Orks fer da job. Tell Gotshik I've got da situation 'andled an' not ter worry. Now, dere's somefin' else I want yer ta tell 'im, so listen up."

* * *

Jamz was about to hop on the truck when the messenger Gretchin hailed him from a distance. "Jamz, Mumzy wants ter see yer in da office. 'Urry up, she's in a foul mood." He ran off to start his long journey back to the tribe.

"Hold up fer five," Jamz ordered Brudz. "Mumzy wants ter see me."

The mega Nob walked away; his bulky armour made it hard for him to move fast, but given enough time and a straight walkway he could pick up speed. Unfortunately, the farm was cluttered with piles of junk that Jamz had to dodge so he managed only to reach the pace of a snail. Brudz always cringed at the sight of such slow movement. Cezzy-Po on the other hand saw it as a great advantage in the event of her surgery on the mega Nob ever going wrong.

As the Ork sisters waited they could hear the roars of Mumzy in the office; the Gretchin's weather report had been spot on. Mumzy's tantrum sent shivers down the girls spines; for whatever reason, Mumzy was upset about something. Severely.

* * *

Jamz pushed the door to the office open slowly; he peeked through the gap. "Mumzy… do yer want some beer?" Jamz had witnessed many of Mumzy's out bursts and knew how to deal with them.

The Nob turned to face her spore son, calming down slightly. She raised a bottle of spirits. "Da Gretchin gave me a bottle ov some stronger stuff; a present from Gotshik. Come in Jamz, I gots ter talk wiv yer."

The mega Nob squeezed through the doorway; Mumzy returned to her seat, and Jamz sat on the floor. Mumzy took a swig from of her spirits and spoke in a low voice. "Yew rememba our talk 'bout yew lot movin' to da tribe a little while back, yeh?"

Jamz nodded. How could he forget? Two giant Nobs on a rampage left the farm in a bit of a mess; it was one of favourite memories. At the time, Jamz didn't like the idea of leaving forever and Mumzy was upset thinking about it. Eventually though Mumzy convinced them both it was for the best. Jamz now looked forward to living in the clan permanently; he could be with the other Nobs and fight whenever he felt the urge. It seemed, however, the subject still stung Mumzy.

"I jus' got news from Gotshik dat dere's gonna be anuver waagh – an' from da sounds ov it, it'll be a long one." She locked eyes with Jamz for a moment; an understanding of the opportunity this presented passed between them. "It'll be a good chance ter break Brudz inta tribe life… da longer she 'as ter stay dere, den da less likely she'll be ter get upset when she realises she aint comin' back 'ere. Now den, I've got a plan ter 'elp…"

* * *

Half an hour passed before Jamz returned; he seemed slightly sombre, but Cezzy-Po and Brudz assumed that was from having to deal with an agro Mumzy. He jumped in the open-topped cabin. "Let's go," He ordered.

The truck roared to life and drove down the dirt road with a cloud of black smoke trailing behind.

The deliveries were completed with no dramas, but Brudz and Cezzy-Po could sense something strange was going on; Jamz was unusually quiet the entire trip. Neither Ork dared ask him what was on his mind – such adventurous questions led to nothing more than yet another injury.

After the delivery was finished the Orks went their separate ways; Brudz and Cezzy-Po went to go sleep somewhere cosy and Jamz sat in Mumzy's trophy room admiring her collection. It wasn't until later that night that Jamz walked out to go find his sisters.

First he looked in the squig pens – sure enough, Cezzy-Po was performing an operation on another unfortunate creature. "Oi, I needs yer to 'elp Brudz get me armour ready. It's gettin' a bit rusty 'n' stuff."

Cezzy-Po didn't argue; she quickly stitched the squig up and put him on the ground, and packed up her tools. When she was ready, they both headed to the garage.

The door creaked open and light flooded out; Brudz had the garage lit up like a Christmas tree while she worked on her bike.

"Oi, me armour needs some fixin'," Jamz announced letting himself into the garage. Cezzy-Po followed, dumping her tools on a bench.

"Gimme a few minutes," Brudz replied from somewhere under her bike. "I'm just fixin' da brakes."

Jamz cleared a space on the floor to sit with a sweep of a clawed hand. With a loud thump he lowered himself and sat on the ground. The three Orks remained in the garage all night, servicing Jamz' mega armour.

The rusty door of the garage fell of its hinges when Mumzy pulled it open. The dawn sun outlined the large Ork standing in the door way. "You's're goin' ta waagh!" The Nob shouted. "Gotshik requested all fwree ov yer go to da tribe. 'Ee needs all da Orks 'ee c'n get."

Jamz was sitting on the dusty floor, surrounded by tools and scraps of metal. He squinted and shook his head as the light shone into his beady, red eyes. Typical large yellow Orkish teeth the size of butchers' knives lined his jaws; he mostly used them for biting the heads off his enemies, but they also served as good hand-holds for Brudz and Cezzy-Po when they had to work up around his head and shoulders.

"Did Mumzy say we iz goin' ter waagh?" Cezzy asked, throwing a razor clogged with hair over her shoulder. She sat crouched on Jamz' right shoulder.

"WAAAAAGH!" Jamz shouted excitedly. "WAAAAAAGH!"

"Stop movin', ya big Nob!" Brudz snapped angrily at Jamz; she sat crouched on his left shoulder. "How's we supposed ta fix yer armour when ya keep squirmin'?" Frustrated, she whacked the back of his armour with a spanner.

Not highly impatient, Jamz screamed back at his smaller sisters, "Shut ya gab, I wanna get ta dis WAAAGH!"

"Get ready, da lot've yer." Mumzy ordered. "I'll draw yer a map. Yew can't go via da trade route, it's dangerous at da moment."

Cezzy-Po plucked a large syringe from a leather bag which was sitting on the floor, and injected its contents none too gently (who's ever heard of a gentle Ork?) into Jamz' exposed, half-shaved, hairy back (yet another squig-hair transplant experiment - compliments of Cezzy-Po. It kept Jamz warm in winter). After some more yelling the big Ork fell asleep, twitching slightly.

"We'll make sure 'ee's ready," Cezzy assured Mumzy. She turned to Brudz. "Let's jus' slap 'is stupid armour back on, an' tell 'im when ee wakes up it's all fixed like. Ee won't know da difference."

Always willing to do things as quickly as possible, Brudz agreed. The pair hefted Jamz' back plate on, screwed it into place, packed up their tools, and left their brother sitting hunched over on the scungy floor.

Mumzy nodded and turned around to walk away. "Don't take all day." She yelled.

Brudz threw her tool box into the side-cart of a shoddy looking motor bike. She had much pride in her bike, which once belonged to her and Cezzy's spore father. "Weez needs ta git our gear ready for dis waagh. Wonder 'oo we're gonna be fightin'"?

Cezzy dumped her leather backpack with Brudz' tool box. "Maybe dem oomies ("oomies" is how the Orks pronounce "humies", short for humans) 'ave invaded." She replied, as thoughtfully as an Ork could. "Mumzy'll tell us about it later I suppose."

The two walked out of the garage, stepping over bits of machines and junk which littered the floor. The land outside was dry and cracked - shrivelled clumps of grass and rocks were scattered everywhere, like warts on a toads back. The only beings that seemed to like the dryness besides the Orks were the legions of flies.

Brudz picked the door up, and leant it against the side of the garage. "Remind me ta fix dat later, yeah?" She prompted her sister.

"What's it need a door fer? It's fine da way it is, jus' throw it on da trash 'eap." Cezzy said, pointing to the pile of junk next to the garage. "Dat's where it came from in da first place, anywayz."

Ignoring her sister with a snort, Brudz walked over to the hut where Mumzy, Jamz, Cezzy-Po and herself all lived. For all of her life, Brudz had been told all about the Evil Suns (their clan) and how Hargut died. Unfortunately, the story Brudz knew and believed was slightly different to what actually happened forty years or so ago.

According to Jamz, Brudz' and Cezzy-Po's spore father Hargut had been a member of the Evil Sunz clan and had died some time ago, in a war (waagh!). The Evil Sunz had plenty of Meks, and thus, plenty of machines. Their dad had been a warbiker - and like many a warbiker - was very zealous about fast bikes. Red bikes, according to the Evil Sunz, were the fastest kind of bikes. The warbiker met his end when he drove his bike over a minefield. Needless to say, there wasn't much left of him afterwards except the remnants of his bike and, for reasons unknown, his leather jacket.

The Jacket was too big on Brudz, so she merely kept it tucked away in her ramshackle room. She held her spore father's memory in high regard; she wanted to be as fast on a bike as he was – if not even faster. He was her role model, and even though he was no longer around, she wanted to do whatever she could that she thought would impress the deceased warbiker. The thought of meeting his old friends made her very excited; she hoped to find out what kind of high scores he had and how many races he won.

Brudz' reminiscing faded away as she and her sister approached their hut. The 'Hut' wasn't much more than a rough looking shanty held up by junk. It leant to the left, and creaked in the wind. The walls were an assortment of planks, scraped vehicle armour, old cement slabs, and it was wrapped in barbed wire. All in all, it was lucky to be standing.

Entering through an irregular shaped hole in the front of the house - which was the front door - Cezzy and Brudz walked in. They made their way to their rooms to collect their things. Cezzy was out within a minute, wearing a belt full of even more medical instruments (including pliers, knives, barbeque tongs and drill bits) and a slugga in her pocket (a pistol). Slung over her shoulder was a bag of stikkbombs (grenades of Orkish make), which she had constructed with the help of her sister.

"Muuuumzyyyy!" Brudz' voice called out, "'Ave yer seen me blasta?" Brudz had a habit of loosing things. Her 'kustom blasta' being the most recent casualty.

"Check out da back!" Mumzy shouted from the office. "Yew's always loosin' fings, learn ta keep an eye on dem, will ya?"

"Yeah, yeah… I's goin' ta have ah look." Brudz trudged out of her room and walked out the back of the house. The porch was covered in stuff nobody could be bothered putting anywhere else; Brudz began to dig through the mess in search of her blasta.

A clamber of hooves ran up the rickety stairs and onto the porch over to Brudz.

"Gah!" Brudz yelled out as something bit onto her leg. "Blasted squigs!"

Standing up, Brudz beat the small squig off her leg, and booted it off the porch. It squealed, hit the ground, and ran away to small heard of squigs in the back yard. Feral squigs escaping the pens and randomly attacking an Ork or Gretchin was not uncommon event at the hut.

Meanwhile, Cezzy had wandered into the kitchen and was shuffling through the drawers. "Yeah… dis looks useful… Oo, I could use dis fer all sorts of operashuns… I might take dis fing, too!"

Mumzy's voice boomed from the office. "Are you goin' froo me kitch'n again, ya fievin' runt?"

Quickly stuffing a cork-screw, a potato peeler and a cheese grater into her pockets, Cezzy pelted out of the kitchen. "No, Mumzy! I, is uh, jus' gettin' Jamz' stuff togeva for da waagh!"  
Mumzy called out in a more casual tone, "if yer lookin' for 'is choppa, it's in da pantry somewherez."

Jamz' choppa was a large cleaver, which their mother often borrowed for butchering the squigs. Cezzy opened the pantry, and saw it hanging on the wall. She grabbed it from its hook; it was as long as Cezzy's arm, quite heavy, and stained.

Lugging the cleaver back out to the garage, Cezzy threw it on the floor, and pulled out yet another syringe from her leather bag and injected Jamz with it. A few seconds later, he began to groggily wake up.

"'Ere's yer cleaver," Cezzy spoke, stepping back before her brother could yell about something, or lash out with his clawed arm or cleaver. "We'll be leavin' soon as Brudz finds 'er blasta."

Jamz stood up and shook himself like a dog. "We is gonna 'ead ta Oric's, 'fore we goes ta waagh, righto'?"

"Yeah, course we will," Cezzy replied.

Oric was a friend (well, as much of a 'friend' an Ork is capable of being) to the three Ork siblings; he and Jamz had fought together many times (against each other, and against the enemy). Oric was a Skarboy, an Ork that was generally rougher, meaner and more violent than other Orks. He drove a looted Leman Russ tank, stolen from the Imperial Guards during the last run-in with the Imperials (which was about one hundred years ago). He was a few years older than Jamz but it made little difference with how they got along.

Moments later, Brudz ran into the garage with a large gun attached to a battery pack strapped to her back. She was wearing a leather cap – ear flaps included - and goggles, "I founds me blasta!" She announced.

"Good fer yew. Now, shud up n' let's git goin'!" Jamz snapped, swiping up his cleaver and attaching it to the back of his armour.

Cezzy jumped into the already-cramped side-cart of the motor bike, between the tool box and her leather medical bags. Brudz hopped on the driver's seat, and started the engine which spluttered to life after a few tries.

The bike sagged under the weight of the three Orks as Jamz clambered on at the back. It crawled out of the garage, clearly unable to cope with the one-ton mega Nob.

Mumzy stood impatiently by the driveway, with her arms crossed. Brudz pulled up beside her. The Nob greeted her eager brood. "You 'ave ta 'ead to da settlement, which is on dis map I drewed ya. Don't go anywhere near da Goffs, dey's on bad terms wiv us Evil Suns – not dat dey ever 'asn't. Yew'll prob'ly be at waagh wiv dem Goffs by da time yer get to da tribe. Avoid da Deffskulls too if yer can, Gotshik reckons they's causin' trouble. It might escalate beyond dat in da coming weeks."

Cezzy took the crumpled piece of paper. "Well, guess dis is good bye again, Mumzy. See ya whenz we beat da dirt outta da uv'er lot!"

"Make sure ya sistah gits some choppin', shootin' and stompin' practice in, Jamz!" Mumzy ordered. "An' be sure ya make dem boyz all betta, right, Cezzy? I don't wanna hear 'bouts us losin' dis waagh!"

"Yeah, yeah," Jamz grumbled, waving a large mechanical claw dismissively. "I'll kill 'em if dey's screw up, don't worry Mumzy."  
Cezzy smirked. "Don't worry, I's got da best tools for surgery! And some real good fightin' juice, too!"

Pulling her goggles over her eyes, Brudz revved the bike. "We's be goin' now, Mumzy, ta git to dis waagh. We'll see yer when we gets back, yeah."

The Orks screamed their goodbyes as the motor bike sped away (at twenty kilometres an hour…). Mumzy stood waving until the exhaust fumes and dust clouds blocked them from view.

One of the Slavers walked over to comfort Mumzy. "'Ere, 'ave anuver beer," He said handing her a keg of fungus beer.

"Fanks Jof…" She took the keg and sculled the contents. She let off a loud burp when she was finished. "I 'opes dat dey come 'n' visit one day…"

Ten minutes later, the bike picked up the speed as it plodded along the dirt road. Every time the bike hit a bump, sparks shot out from the rear wheel beneath Jamz.

"I thought you said dis bike cud go fast?" Jamz growled.

"It would go fasta if it weren't so full o' stuff." Brudz replied, avoiding mentioning that it wasn't designed for big, heavy, mega-armoured Nobs to sit on.

They turned onto the main road, which was roughly tarred, and headed past the squig farms towards the town of Tam'urt ten kilometres down the road.

* * *

Oric was sleeping soundly with his boom box screaming out an abysmal noise. He was using a chunk of metal as a pillow, and the tracks from a tank as blankets.  
An alarm clock went off; Oric did not wake until the clock rattled its way off the shelf and landed on his head with a clunk.

"Shtupid clock…" he grumbled, and hauled himself off the floor. "Time ta make choppy stuff… right afta I eats somefin'."

As usual he had slept in his clothes, and did not require dressing. Immediately, he stomped out of his dingy room into a thin mouldy hallway. The hallway led straight to a kitchen; Oric walked in, reefed open the fridge door, grabbed a six pack of beer, and shoved the whole thing into his maw of a mouth. After digesting his morning beer, he grabbed a leg of smoked squig out to gnaw on hungrily.

Oric walked back out of the kitchen, chewing on his squig leg. The only other door besides the one to his bedroom was in the middle of the hallway, on the left wall. Oric swung it open, and on the other side was a huge forge - which Oric operated when he wasn't at war (waagh!). It produced choppas of all shapes and sizes.  
Several Gretchin (a smaller, runty Ork breed), ran about the place stoking fires and pouring molten metal into moulds. Oric picked up a hammer and tongs, and walked over to his workshop; which housed an anvil and a blade sharpener, as well as other forging tools. He swatted away a Gretchin with his squig leg; it screamed piteously as it burned to death in a nearby pot of molten metal. Despite his complete lack of care for any of the Gretchin, many of them began to swarm around - waiting for Oric to throw his squig bone away.

The Ork sat down on a stool at a work bench and looked down at the Gretchin. Biting off the last hunk of meat, he said "'Ere, you lot want dis? Catch!" He threw the stripped squig bone far across the forgery.

Eager to chew on the squig bone, all the Gretchin scrambled after it in a riot. A few were pushed into the molten metal tubs, and others were trampled. The first band of Gretchin to reach the bone drew out knives and began to slash at each other.

"Heh heh heh, dey's always good to watch." Oric grunted in amusement.

Oric got to work, bashing pieces of hot metal into rough clubs and stabby things. Although most Orks would try to do as little as possible, Oric liked making things which hurt people; it was a fetish of some kind.

After finishing his rough clubs and stabby things, Oric moved to the sharpening wheel. Stuffing a fat cigar into his gob with one hand, he grabbed one of the weapons with the other, and put it on the wheel. He switched the wheel on and it began to spin. Sparks poured from where the weapon came into contact with the wheel; leaning forward, Oric lit his cigar in the fountain of red, white and yellow.

The minutes seemed to pass as quickly as the wheel turned, while Oric puffed cigar after cigar and added a nice edge to his weapons. Feeling thirsty again, Oric called out to a close by Gretchin. "Oi', You! Git me some beer!"

Oric continued to sharpen weapons as he waited for his beer.

"WAAAAAAAAAAAGH!"

Oric nearly stabbed himself as he jumped in surprise.

"WAAAAAAAAAAAGH!" Jamz rumbled again.

"I heard ya da first time!" Oric shouted, sitting back down on his stool. "Whadoya want? Can't ya se I'm doin' stuff ya loud Nob!"

"An' 'ello ta you, too." Brudz greeted sarcastically, stepping out from behind her brother and sniffing the air "Why's it smell like a barbi-cue in 'ere?"  
Cezzy-Po joined her sister in sniffing the air. "I liked barbi-cues! Yum! Can wes 'ave some?"

"Move it!" A Gretchin carrying a six pack of beer snarled, shoving its way past Cezzy, and avoiding Jamz.

Oric shuffled through a small box sitting on the bench beside the wheel, looking for another cigar. He absent mindedly reached out to grab another weapon with his free hand. Accidentally grabbing the Gretchin by the head, he put the small creature's skull on the wheel. Oric looked up when the screaming Gretchin dropped the beer, smashing it on the floor.

"Blasted Gretchin!" Oric growled. "Now me cigar's all wet! An' me beer's all smashed!"

Cezzy stepped back as blood and beer crept towards her feet. "I don't think dat's good! Not sure if I c'n fix dat…"

Turning off the wheel with an agitated sigh, Oric got up from the stool and held what was left of the Gretchin to Cezzy-Po. "'Ere, you c'n barbi-cue dis if ya want, I guess."

Jamz licked his lips where the blood splattered. "Mmm, Gretchin taste good." He reached out and plucked the Gretchin corpse from Oric, and shoved it into his huge maw, chewing with his mouth open.

Cezzy-Po snarled at Jamz. "I wanted ta barbi-cue it!"

"Raw is betta!" Jamz spat between bites.

Brudz eyed some nearby Gretchin hungrily. Sensing their doom, the little runt-like Ork creatures ran away. Dismayed, Brudz said to her sister, "Let's jus' go git somethin' dat's already dead from da fridge, yeah?"

"Sounds good, dere must be somethin' yummy in da fridge." Cezzy replied and the pair bounded off towards the back of the forge, where the door to the kitchen was.

"Don't go eatin' all me squig meat! And if I finds yer touched me beer, I'll feed ya to me Gretchin!" Oric yelled out. He then turned to Jamz. "Anywayz, wat's dis you said 'bout waagh?"

"Mumzy said to us dis mornin' dat we gots to go to waagh." Jamz explained, picking at his teeth with a claw. "All I know is dat Cezzy-Po was given a map wit da locayshen of wheres we gots ta go. Mumzy didn' say much."

"I can't wait to git to dis waagh!" Oric said rubbing his giant hands together. "I'll git to see all me choppy bits bein' used! An', I'll git ta kill somethin', yeah. Wonder whys I never 'eard nothin' bout dis waagh 'fore nows?"

Jamz belched, and shrugged. "Doubt anyone'd be game 'nough ta come inta dis dump ta tell ya, 'sides me. Dunno how ya couldn't hear da noise from da street though. Dey's all screamin' bout da waagh. WAAAAAARGH!"

Pointing to the brick and metal walls, Oric explained. "'Case ye haven't noticed, dis 'ere forge 'as thick walls. Not much I c'n hear from out dere, 'specially ova all da noise of 'ammers and bangy clangy stuffs."

A loud, crude laugh echoed through the forgery. "What da hell's them two runtlets laughin' at?" Jamz scowled, recognising his sister's voices.

Jamz and Oric walked to the source of the noise, up the far end of the forgery. Brudz and Cezzy-Po were crawling over a large scrap heap. On closer inspection, Jamz realised it was actually the remains of a tank.

"Look at dis!" Brudz smirked, and pulled off a mangled turret. "What da 'ell happened? Looks like ya drove it ova a cliff! Ha! Ha! Ha!"

"Stop laughin' at Tankabell, and stop touchin' 'er! I gots plans ta restore 'er!" Oric ran over to the pile of mangled metal, and tried to swat Brudz, but she climbed higher.

Tankabell was the name of Oric's what-once-was looted Leman Russ tank, which now sat in a pile in the dark corner of the forgery. He treated it like royalty, even in the tank's darkest hours. The tank, until recently, had been in almost perfect Orkish condition.  
Cezzy-Po jumped down, and brushed her clothes off. "I aint no Mek, but I'd say dat tank is screwed beyond fixin', Oric."  
"Yeah, exactly, you aint no mek so shut ya yap!" Oric growled back. "Tankabell'll be fixed, you'll see!"

Brudz climbed down, with the turret still in her hands, and stood beside her sister, confirming her diagnosis. "Well, I am a Mek, and I offishally sayz dat tank is croaked it."

"She aint croaked it!" Oric roared, spraying spittle everywhere. "I's gonna fix 'er!"

"Ha!" Jamz snorted. "You couldn't fix a feast in a squig pit", let alone a _tank_. How'd ya git it in dat mess anywayz? It didn't look like that two weeks ago, heh heh heh."

Oric seemed to calm down, after stroking the gun turret from his tank for a moment. "Well," he said, "It happen'd somethin' like dis…"


	3. Da Fate of Tankabell

Chapta Two: Da Fate of Tankabell

**Chapta Two:** Da Fate of Tankabell

Say of Da Day: _"Mmm, beer." –Jamz_

Oric took a seat on the remains of the tank. After a Gretchin had fetched him some more beer and squig meat, he explained everything between bites.

"… It was a horrible, filfy day, de sun was ev'rywheres like always, yeah. So, bein' smart like I alwayz is – shut ya yap! – I waited 'till dusk, when da sun wasn't so stinkin' hot. Anywayz, de day before, waz dat day I'd been to yer hut near dose squig farms. I didn't 'ave 'nough beer ta git slogged on, so I stole some of Cezzy-Po's doktory juices she 'ad in da garage, 'n' took 'em home wit me. Needless ta say, on da day afta, when da sun was all hot n' shiny n' stuff, I waz bored n' decided ta take me tank for a ride 'round dusk. I also took all dat juice I stole, in case I got firsty.

By da time I'd left da town, I'd already ran out of Cezzy's juice. It was great! Yeah, made me feel all good n' fluffy, n' stuff like dat. I ended up drivin' me tank frew all sorts o' places. Waste dumps, toxic spills, a village or two, a latrine… It waz great fun. Me tank was capable of chargin' frew da toughest fings, n' no ones could stop me, heh. Evenshually, I smashed frew da fence to ah squig farm. Boy, dat was fun, heh heh heh! Got me a week's werf o' squig meat from dat one. But, dat's where me luck ran out. After squashin' all dem small squiggies, I ran inta a pen which had what I fought was a boulder in it at da time… it waz fwree times bigga den Tankabell 'ere. An' it wasn't no boulda…

ROOOOOAAAARRR! SQUEAAAAL! SNOOOORT! WAAAARGH! It was a SQUIGOFF! Yep, I ran me tank inta a full growed male squigoff. Da biggest Squigoff I'd eva seen! At da time, I found it kinda funny; ya know, runnin' up da arse of da largest lan' animal ya eva seen wiv me tank n' all. But when I dids, da squigoff didn't seem to find it as amusin' as I did. So, da bull squigoff lumbered around ta face me tank, and it went ape shit on me precious Tankabell ta say da least. It reared up, n' stamped me tank flat; nearly crushed me in da process, so I waz forced ta git out. O' course, bein' all pumped up from dat juice of Cezzy's, I fought I could take da beast on by meself, wiv me bare hands. I was so pissed off dat de squigoff had ruined Tankabell, all I could fink 'bout was tearin' dat beast a new one, yeah.

Anywayz, an' so it began - da battle between me an' da squigoff! Heh heh heh! I's stared at da squigoff, right in 'is eyes. 'Is tusks were 'uge; but me high was even bigga! I pulled out me choppa, and ran at da squigoff, wiv me choppa raised in da air. Da squigoff charged me, an' me choppa smack'd inta it's lowa jaw, right between's it's teef. I clung on, and da squigoff kept runnin' wiv me hangin' off it's jaw by me choppa. We was bofe roarin', but I copped a face full'o' squigoff breff… dat got me right angry! I clawed at it's big sticky tongue wiv one 'and as it tried ta lick me off it's lips. It was like bein' mauled by a squid, or somefin'. Dat didn't really work, so I pulled me shoota from me pocket and started ta shoot it's tongue. Dat seemed ta really tick it off, so's I found meself bein' flung into da air as it reared it's big ugly 'ead, and roared. I was sent flyin', an' pieces of spit slapped me all over; kinda like rainin' da wrong side up.

I began to fall agin, only da big maw of de squigoff was below me. If I was sane at da time, I woulda realised I was probably 'bout ta die, but, 'coz I fought I was immortal, I didn't really care much, 'cept 'bout winnin' 'gainst da squigoff. Well, I woulda died, 'cept I fell straight down da beast's froat n' it swallowed me 'ole. It didn' git da chance ta chomp on me, an' dat was what doomed it. I didn' really know wheres I was, but it was all warm n' stinky an' really 'ard ta take a breff. Enraged n' confused, I clawed and tore at whateva me 'ands came into contact wiv.

Evenshually, frew blind daterminashen, I managed ta dig a 'ole frew to da outside, before da beast's stomach acids burned da flesh off me bones. Afta regainin' me senses, or well what senses da juice left me wit, I ran beneef da beast to it's jaw. It was roarin' an' stompin', clearly in lotsa pain, yeah. I grabbed me choppa and pulled it outta da beast's lip, an' it swept me off me feet wit a big tusk o' it's. I clung on, as it shook its stupid 'ead again, but dis time I didn' go flyin'. Wiv one 'and holdin' me choppa, an' da uv'er holdin' onta da tusk fer life, I madly began ta hack at da root of it's giant tusk. It didn' like dat, eiver, an' it started ta run aroun', tryin' ta do what I dunno, but I kept hackin', n' choppin'.

Afta much blood n' pieces of tusk an' flesh bein' frown all ova da place, I was flung off, an' went skiddin' across da ground. I stood back up. Da squigoff was readyin' itself ta charge me again… dis was it, da final showdown. So, when it began ta run, so did I… in da uv'er direction! I ran fasta dan a Stormboy… until I was up against a rock wall. Da squigoff made da erff shake wit every step; I crouched down, an' as da dumb beast got close, it hit da wall wiv it's tusks. I was un 'urt, but da squigoff's tusk I 'ad hacked at was knocked loose, yeah.

As da squigoff stood dere, stunned, I grabbed it's tusk wiv me hands, an' began ta rip it left n' right, until eventually da tusk was torn from da squigoff. "FER TANKABELL!" I roared, an' began ta beat da dumb squigoff wiv it's own tusk, 'till it's 'ead was a bloody pulp. And den I tore out it's 'eart, n'… hey, where'd ya all go?"

Jamz, Cezzy-Po and Brudz were nowhere to be seen. Oric was all alone. "Stupid gits!" he cursed, and stood up. "Oh well, time fer some beer."

He walked to the kitchen, grabbed the handle, and pulled open the door. The sight which met him nearly made him choke on his tongue. "M-m-my meat! And my BEER! Nooooooooo!"

The fridge door was hanging from one hinge; beer bottles, bones and general trash littered the floor. Jamz sat on the floor chewing on a squig shank; Brudz and Cezzy-Po were standing on the bench, fighting over the last of the beer.

"Mitts off! It's mine!" Cezzy-Po snarled, threatening Brudz with a scalpel. "You already 'ad six!"

"Dok's shouldn' drink beer, 'case deys need ta operate!" Brudz protested, poking Cezzy with a spanner. The last beer bottle sat between them, at their feet.

Oric roared and ran for the beer. "Dat's MY beer!" His attempt was met with two boots and a spanner to the face.

"Don't intarupt us!" Cezzy yelled, throwing an empty beer bottle at Oric who was lying on the floor with a bleeding nose.

A giant burp resinated from Jamz' gullet, filing the room with the smell of a corpse. "When's we gittin to dis waagh?" he asked, standing up and wiping his mouth.

Cezzy lunged at Brudz, scalpel out. "Soon as I git dis 'ere BEER!"

"Over me dead body!" Brudz replied defending herself with another spanner.

Oric was angry. His beer was gone, his food was gone, and he had been attacked by green Ork locusts. Jumping back onto his feet, he yelled at the top of his lungs, "WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!"

Immediately, Brudz and Cezzy turned on Oric and the three-way battle began. The prize: fungus beer.

"Mmm, beer," Jamz licked his green lips as he lumbered over to where the beer bottle sat. He reached out with a large clawed hand, and swept it up. He threw it into his mouth, never to be seen again.

Cezzy, Brudz and Oric froze, glaring at Jamz. "Tell me ya didn' jus' eat da beer…" Cezzy whimpered.

Jamz replied with burp. "Uuuurp."

"Dis is all yer fault!" Brudz said, pointing a bloody spanner at Cezzy. "If yer coulda jus' let me 'ave dat beer, den dat glutton wouldn' 'ave ate it!"

"I prefers Jamz avin' it, den you, if'n I's can't 'ave it fer meself!" Cezzy growled.

With a sweep of his scarred arm, Oric tossed the squabbling Orks aside. There was no food left in the kitchen, and he was angry. "I told ya not ta touch me meat n' BEER!" he yelled, frothing at the mouth, blood dripping off his chin. "DIIIEEE!"

Jamz looked around confused. "Eh? Er, wha'eva. WAAAAGH!"

"WAAAAGH!" Brudz screamed at the top of her lungs.

"WAAAAGH!" Cezzy screeched.

"DIIIIEEEE!" Oric howled, flailing a stool at Jamz, and stampeding around the room.

Not wanting to be crushed, Cezzy-Po and Brudz scrambled for the door to the forgery. They left Jamz and Oric to battle it out.

"Wonder what sorta choppas dey's got 'ere?" Cezzy asked, looking around for anything that might be useful in surgery.

Less enthused about stabby bits, Brudz made a bee-line for a nearby scrap pile. "I jus' wanna fix me bike." She grumbled. "Jamz bent sumfin'."

Back at the kitchen, Jamz threw the fridge across the room; it smashed into the wall beside Oric. "What's we fightin' 'bout again?" he asked.

"BEER!" Oric snarled, clearly worked up. "MEAT!"

Jamz shrugged, and raised mechanically clawed hand. "Hmm, okay. BEER! MEAT! WAAAAGH!" Screaming out his waagh cry, he charged Oric.

"BEER! MEAT! WAAAAGH!" Oric replied in a frenzy, and picked up a stool with each hand.

Cezzy couldn't help but grin when she heard the cracks, smacks and thumps from inside the kitchen. "I 'opes I gits ta stich sum injuries! Or, maybes I c'n practice me cybork enhanshments! Ooh, hee hee hee!" She cackled with glee, playing with her scalpel.

The Dok walked over to a nearby rack, lined with brand new, shiny, weapons. She was particularly attracted to a large, jagged, semi-circular thing. Her eyes gleamed as she plucked it off the shelf. "Ooh, kinda shaped like ah shpiky rainbow, hee hee! Dis'll be good fer choppin' open da boyz chests, an dere shkullz! Aaaah… heeeee!"

Brudz poked Cezzy-Po in the back. "Why da hells ya curled up on da floor? Huh? What's dat yer huggin…?" She asked, leaning over her sister.

Cezzy began to giggle like a witch. "Ee hee hee hee!" She stroked the semi-curcular hand saw fondly, and held it close.

"I swear I aint related ta 'er…" Brudz muttered, taking a few paces back before turning around. "Oi, Cezzy, stop dribblin' n' 'elp me drag me bike in 'ere. I gots ta fix it, or we's gonna be walkin' ta dis waagh."

Reluctantly, Cezzy scrambled to her feet. "Yeh, whateva… hee hee." She gave her saw one last stroke before tucking it under her jacket.

To avoid the crossfire between the two Nobs still loudly arguing in the kitchen, the sisters headed out of the side of the forgery through a roll-up door; Brudz grabbed a length of rope on the way out.

The roll-up door exited out onto an extremely unkempt street. Weeds were growing up through the cracks on the tarred road, the pavement had craters, and strewn here and there was the odd remains of burnt out vehicles.

Brudz grunted. "All the good parts 'ave probably been taken by now…" she said, eyeing off some of the crashed vehicles.

"Still," Cezzy replied, "might be worth a gander anyways, yeh? Maybe dey was too shtupid ta get da good bits."

"Yew jus' wanna see if dere's any bodies in dem vehicles…" Brudz mumbled.

The two Orks walked around the corner of the building, onto the main street where Brudz' bike was stacked (it had crashed into the wall, because the brakes failed – not that it was going very fast to begin with). A group of Orks stood around it - probing it and poking it, trying to get it to work. They had painted blue faces, and wore an assortment of armour and clothing which looked like it had been sewn together from scraps.

Brudz was about to scream out in fury, when Cezzy covered her gob with a hand, and hissed, "Shhh! Dats dah Deff Shkullz clan! They'd beat da stuffin' outta us two!"

The Death Skulls ('Deff Skullz', or as Cezzy pronounces it, 'Deff Shkullz') were renowned thieves; they would plunder anything that wasn't bolted down (and even then, they'd do their best to unbolt it). They were most recognisable by their blue face paint, which they believed gained the favour of Gork and Mork, the Orkish gods.

Pulling her sister's hand away, Brudz quietly hissed back, "Doya mind! Ya bloomin' stabbed me wiv somefin'."

"Heh…" Cezzy pocketed a bloody scalpel which he had in her hand at the time when she hushed her sister. "Oops."

The sisters whipped back around the corner, so the Death Skulls boyz would not see them. "What's we gonna do?" Brudz queried. "Dere's five of dem, two of us, and me bike'll be stripped – if not entirely pilfered – to nuthin' but uh few nails!"

"Go back in da forge, n' git Jamz an' Oric." Cezzy suggested.

"Nah," Brudz disagreed, "You go git dem, I'll wait 'ere."

"No way, yew'll be all shtupid like n' try n' do somefin dumb-arshed ta git yer bike back while I'm gawn. I dun wanna 'ave ta stich ya back tageva 'gain!"

"I thinks I gots an idea…"

Cezzy was not impressed; she never trusted plans devised by her sister. "I 'ate yer planz, dey always fail!"

A sly smile crept onto Brudz' cracked lips. "Dis plan o' mine'll git Jamz and Oric out 'ere, dontcha worry bout dat'un, Cezzy. I promizez it won't fail, yeh."

Reluctantly, Cezzy agreed. "Alright, wat's dis plan yer got?"

"'Ere, 'old dis fer me, will ya?" Brudz unstrapped her battery pack and kustom blasta from her back, and passed it to her sister.

"Why ya doin' dat?" Cezzy asked, assuming it was part of the plan. "Does I git ter shoot it?"

"I c'n run fasta, wiv out dat strapped to me back." Brudz replied. Before her sister could process the information, she ran around the corner, waving her arms and screaming loudly, "BEER! WAAGH! BEER! WAAGH!"

Five blue heads turned and faced Brudz; they didn't look impressed.

"Beer? Where? I don't see no beer." One of them snarled. "Kill dat crazy lie'n' punk!"

The Death Skulls drew their shootas and sluggas, ready to hack down Brudz. They were already thinking what they'd spend Brudz' teeth on, once they ripped them out of her skull, and how they'd use her bones for décor.

Brudz ran left and right, in circles, but ever closer to the Death Skulls. "BEER! WAAGH!" She kept screaming. "BEEEER! WAAAAGH!"

"Kill 'er!" One of the Death Skulls growled. "Shut 'er gab!"

Cezzy-Po crept close to the corner, keeping close to the wall. She didn't want to get shot, but she wanted to see what was going on. She peeked around, and quickly retracted when she saw the Death Skulls had their guns raised.

As the Death Skulls let off their first shots, the wall beside them exploded; a giant Ork in mega-armour emerged, crushing one of the Death Skulls as he landed on the pavement beside the bike. Another Nob emerged, with a giant cigar in his mouth. It was Jamz and Oric.

"WAAAAGH!" Jamz roared, looking left and right. "Where's da WAAAGH?"

"Oo said beer?" Oric said eyeing the Death Skulls, and then Brudz. "Where's me BEER?"

The four remaining Death Skulls looked at one another; they weren't sure what was going on, or whether they should shoot or stab something.

Brudz stopped running in circles, and pointed a finger at the Death Skulls. "Dey… dey stoled our beer… an' waagh…yeh. Dem feevin' turds stoled our beer and waagh!"

In unison, Jamz and Oric glared furiously at the Death Skulls. "Kill 'em!" Jamz snarled. "An' git back our waagh an' beer!"

Oric grabbed a big shoota out of his back pocket, and shot the closest Death Skull boy repeatedly until he collapsed in a pile of messy goop. Jamz grabbed another, and rammed his head into the pavement so his brains looked like strawberry jam (a common signature of Jamz). The two remaining Death Skulls fled, shooting over their shoulders at Jamz and Oric.

"Oh no ya don't, ya blue-faced yella bellied snots!" Cezzy-Po stepped out from behind the corner, with her new chest saw above her head, grasped in one hand. With all her might, she threw it. Seconds later, with a sickening thud, one of the Death Skulls fell to the ground with the saw embedded in the side of his head.

"Nobody touches me bike 'n' lives!" Brudz yelled after the last Death Skull. "Coward!"

"Betta ta be a coward, den ta be deaded!" he replied, running very fast, before he disappeared behind a building.

After pillaging the dead Orks of everything useful including their teeth, and Cezzy had retrieved her saw (as well as several body parts), Brudz tied the rope to the back of her bike. "C'n ya drag me bike into da forge, Jamz?" She asked.

"Where's da beer dey stoles?" Oric grumbled, looking beneath the rubble. "I don't sees it!"

Lying to avoid being obliterated, Brudz replied, "Dem Death Skulls musta drunk it all on ya, Oric. Ya shudda been more quika, yeah… an' dunno where's dey put da waagh, we shud jus' follow dat map Mumzy made."

Jamz, instead of grabbing the rope attached to the bike, picked up the bike and pulled it out of the rubble. "Dis way's betta." He said, and stepped back through the hole in the wall.


	4. The Imperials

Chapta Fwree: The Imperials

**Chapta Fwree:**The Imperials

Say of Da Day: _"My mother married a man three centuries older than herself__!"__–__ Private Marco Fezz_

On the moon Oblivious, above Octavius Three, was a small Imperial Guardsmen outpost. Oblivious was manned with a mere two hundred guardsmen including officers and scientists; the outpost was a small research station on the outer edges of the Imperium. The outpost also served as a listening post; it was far from the front lines of the more important interstellar wars, and kept watch on the mostly empty space in the area. In other words, it was a lump of rock where no one wanted to go.

Three officers sat behind a table draped in a white table cloth. They all wore formal uniforms, and each had a stack of paper sitting in front of them. On a lone seat, exactly one and a half metres in front of the officers, sat Private Marco Fezz. Marco wore his service uniform, neatly ironed. His neat brown hair was mostly hidden beneath his hat, and his moustache was to the regulated size. The officers flicked through a phycology exam handed in by Private Fezz.

"Commodore," spoke the youngest of the three officers in a quiet voice, "you may be interested in page three, question eleven, of the psychology exam, sir."

The commodore, an elderly man whose hair was white but still thick and short, nodded in reply. His right eye socket was encased in metal; a bionic eye was implanted within the casing. The commodore flicked through the paper to page three, and mumbled to himself question eleven. "_What comes to your mind when you think of our immortal Emperor?_"

Marco was feeling less and less comfortable by the minute; he had been sitting on his chair for over seven minutes now, in total silence. No one asked him questions, no one spoke to him. The three officers just sat there, sifting through three copies of his psychology and aptitude tests. Every now and then the commodore's bionic eye would stare at him. He tried not squirm uncomfortably, but the tension was beginning to work on Marco's nerves.

The commodore spent several seconds in silence reading Marco's test answer before, for the first time, he lifted his head and looked at Marco with both eyes. "_…Grapes."_

Marco visibly twitched. He wasn't sure if the commodore wanted him to speak, or just sit there. "Uh… I can explain sir…"

The Emperor of the human race, of the Imperium, was considered a god among men. He was kept alive using the most sophisticated and secretive methods only known to a handful of humans. Each of the Emperor's words were considered to be worth more than ten thousand times that of a chunk of platinum. Anyone who did not follow the way of the Imperium, and honour the Emperor in every possible way, were considered heathens. Heathens, in this age, were on the Imperium's hit list.

The commodore put the papers down, and pulled out a cigar. "Please, do explain, private." He said while lighting his cigar.

This was the chance Marco had been waiting for; whether it would do him harm, or help him, he was glad to break the silence. "Well, Commodore sir," Marco spoke timidly, "It's more of a metaphor to me than a real, er, thought, I suppose. As we all know the Emperor is immortal, yet his body is said to be as older than most of the colonies themselves. And when I think of old people… I think of sultanas, and prunes, because most old people get wrinkly skin… and uh… a sultana is a dried up grape… and grapes in ancient times were eaten by royalty… immortality… not dried up I suppose… er… somehow all that makes me think of grapes whenever I think of the Emperor…"

The commodore silently puffed on his cigar, staring at Marco with an unreadable expression. The officers either side of the commodore were less discreet and looked shocked.

Eventually, the commodore just picked up another piece of paper, and read it out aloud. "_Question seventeen: What is your life worth to you? Answer: A bag of chocolate coated peanuts."_

It relieved Marco when the commodore spoke again, apparently the topic about the Emperor had been and gone just like that. At least Marco had hoped that was what happened when the commodore read out question seventeen.

"A bag of chocolate coated peanuts?" The quiet lieutenant asked Marco. He was about to speak directly to Marco again when the commodore stretched his arm out in front of the young officer.

"Leave it there, Lieutenant." He said, and retracted his arm. "I will be asking the questions, you are merely here as my consultant."

Nodding respectfully, the lieutenant began to examine the other papers and left the commodore to speak with the private.

"So, Marco," the commodore said taking a more casual tone and blowing out a cloud of cigar smoke from his mouth, "Are you really that interested in the project? What's it all to you, what's buzzing around in that head of yours? I want to know more. Tell me why you want to be apart of this project."

Marco practiced his breathing techniques, to help calm himself. He tried to speak to the commodore in a level and serious voice, but he couldn't stop showing his excitement. He felt that the commodore's words were a good sign. "I… I… I've always wanted to be a scientist!" He quivered elatedly.

The commodore nodded and leant back to talk quietly to a squadron leader. The pair exchanged a few words, and the squadron leader passed the commodore another stack of papers.

Another five minutes passed while everyone sat in silence as the commodore flicked through the papers. Eventually, the commodore looked at Marco again. "Congratulations Private Fezz," he said with very little emotion, "you're on the project. Hand this to Sergeant Barthees."

Marco stood up; he was stunned. He got in! He felt like the luckiest person in the Imperium. He walked over to the officers desk, and waited while the commodore signed something, and put a stack of papers into an envelope.

The commodore handed the envelope to Marco without so much as a smile. Instead, he spoke in an orderly fashion, "Barthees will be available after fifteen hundred hours. Until that time, you're excused of duties. Get you bags packed, private. Barthees will fill you in on the rest."

Marco threw a hearty salute, about turned and nearly fell over; he was shaking from both fear and glee. As soon as he was out the door, he let loose. "I made it! I'm in! I'm friggin' in! Yeah! I'm gonna be a scientist!"

He danced in the corridor, trying to convince himself it really wasn't just a dream, and that he really had just achieved something in life besides winning a karaoke contest.

A stern voice shouted out form behind Fezz, "Private! What the hell are you doing? Do you want me to shoot you in the head, because you sure making me feel like I want to do it!"

Marco swivelled around and quickly fixed his shirt and put his hat back on. A sergeant had walked around the corner, dressed in battle gear, with a large pack on his back. He had a blonde bar moustache, which reached down past his lips and to his chin line.

"I… I'm sorry, sergeant, but the greatest thing ever has just happened to me!" Marco stammered, fearful that the sergeant really _would_ put a hole in his head.

Walking up to Marco, the sergeant leant close and glared him in the eyes angrily. He then looked at the door beside Marco which had "INTERVIEW" written on it. The sergeant's expression changed to one of curiosity. "Hmm, so kiddo, what was you in there for? And what's all this greatest thing ever stuff you were babbling about?"

The private couldn't believe the sergeant hadn't heard. "Don't you know about the planetary exploration, sergeant? They were doing selections for it today. Had to do a psychology exam and _everything_. I passed! Or at least that's what the commodore told me. They wanted two volunteers, I don't know if they've chosen another person already or what."

The sergeant snorted. "Planetary exploration? So that's what they termed it." He muttered something beneath his breath which Marco couldn't catch. "Well anyway, I pity you kid. You really got no idea what you just 'volunteered' for. See you around." Without another glance at Marco, the sergeant walked off.

"But it's more than exploration," Marco said trying to impress the sergeant, "we have to do studies, and experiments and scientific stuff like that, too."

"Is that right?" The sergeant replied amused, and he walked around the corner. Marco could hear the sergeant begin to laugh.

Ignoring the impolite sergeant, Marco decided to pack his bags like the commodore had ordered, until it was time to find Barthees.

_Several hours later, at 1450hrs outside of Sergeant Barthee's office._

Marco was sitting on a chair in the corridor, awaiting the arrival of sergeant Barthees. He had brought the envelope with him, and was playing with his moustache anxiously.

"Hey there, private! You got picked for the planet thing too?"

Marco looked up; a woman with black hair pulled back into a tight bun was walking up the hall. She had an envelope in her hand similar to Marco's. She was mid-height, and muscular.

"Hi, yeah, I got picked to go on the planet exploration this morning. I'm guessing you did too?" Marco replied, standing up. He held out his hand to shake.

"Yeah, sure did," she replied, shaking Marco's hand in a grip that nearly broke his fingers. "I look forward to it, I've never had the chance to do anything like this."

"My name's Marco Fezz," Marco introduced himself while massaging his aching hand.

"You can call me Sam," the woman replied. She was also a private, and wore a men's ceremonial uniform identical to Marco's (except in a larger size).

Sam and Marco sat down on the chairs outside Barthee's office. "Are you stationed at this outpost?" Sam asked.

"No," Marco replied, explaining, "I came from a much larger base. I heard about the planet exploration, and put my name down. Myself and three other privates from my squad were picked and shipped here to participate in the final interviews. Apparently they were very picky about what type of people were to go on the exploration."

"Same as me," Sam agreed. "I was based in a very far away system. It took me three months to get here."

Holding up his envelope, Marco sighed with satisfaction saying, "well, our journeys were worth it."

Marco was startled when someone ripped the envelope from his hand. "No it wasn't. And I hate you."

Sam's envelope was also snatched from her. "And I'm very suspicious of you." the same voice snapped.

"Hey!" Marco shouted surprised. "Those are for Sergeant Barthees only! Huh, you're the sergeant I met earlier. Are you stalking me?"

"Ha!" the sergeant shouted. "I am Sergeant Barthees! And I aint stalking you kid. Although I could ask _you_ the same question."

Sam rolled her eyes. Marco had the feeling she wanted to say something to the rude sergeant, but her rank made that impossible.

"He obviously picked you both for a reason." Barthees said, unlocking his office with an eye-scan. "Now, come in, take a seat, and let me evaluate how screwed I truly am."

Sam looked at Marco, who shrugged. Neither could understand what was making the sergeant so pessimistic. The pair entered the office after Barthees, and the door slid closed. The room was messy; the desk which the sergeant sat behind was buried beneath stacks of paper.

"Nice room, sergeant." Sam commented sarcastically.

Clearing a space off his desk, Barthees explained exasperated, "Well, I haven't exactly had time to scratch my ass over the past few months, let alone clean my office. Look at my eyes! They're blood shot. The first friggin thing I'm doing when we get down to that shit-hole planet is sleep for a week! I'll just make some bullshit up that we all caught the plague from the Orks we were studying or something."

"Orks?" Marco asked, unsure. "Why would be studying for Orks? Aren't we meant to be doing scientific research and exploring the planet?"

"No wonder they picked you. I don't even have to look inside your envelope to register that." Barthees commented, rolling his eyes and taking off his combat helmet. Leaning back in his seat, he put his boots up on the desk. "The Orks _are_ our 'scientific' research. It's just an excuse to get me killed, really. And, you two suckers are stuck with me now. As for the exploration… well, we do kinda have to explore the planet to find where the Orks are. I'm sure there's plenty of them down there, though. So finding them won't really be a problem."

Sam didn't seem too concerned; however, Marco looked less and less enthusiastic about 'planetary exploration'. "I… I haven't got any combat experience… how can they expect me to go down onto an Ork infested planet and expect me to survive?" He quivered.

Barthees sighed; he was getting impatient. "That's the whole friggin' point, moron! I can guarantee that Sam doesn't have combat experience, either. Am I right?"

Sam looked at the sergeant as if he had two heads. "What? Course I got combat experience. I just aint been promoted because my commander is prejudiced towards my kind."

"You have combat experience?" Barthees said, nearly falling of his chair. "Thank the Emperor! As soon as we get to that planet, I'm promoting you to corporal!"

"How generous." Sam replied dryly.

"And, you can share my bunk if you like." The sergeant added saucily.

Sam put her hand into her pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it up. "You should have read my file before saying that, sergeant…"

Using his combat knife, the sergeant cut open Sam's envelope. He pulled out the papers, and flicked through them.

Confused, Marco asked, "Are you a nun? I can totally understand, in this Dane age I think I'd be turned off as well… too many gadgets now days, if you know what I mean. My mother married a man three centuries older than herself! Thankfully, I was not his son."

Sam puffed quietly away on the cigarette, ignoring Marco.

"Oh…" Sergeant Barthees lowered the papers, and meshed his fingers together, leaning on his desk with his elbows. "Sorry about the misunderstanding there, Samantha. I have a cousin from Nimbin Seven. He's the same as you, like a majority of the people there. He found it hard in the military, ended up shooting himself because of it."

Sam stuck out her tongue, put out the cigarette on it, and ate the butt. "Just call me Sam. It saves a lot of confusion." Turning to Marco, who looked rather confused, she added, "let's just say I put the 'man' back into 'Samantha'. Sorry I didn't say anything earlier, I didn't get the chance. But for future reference, if you speak about me I do prefer to be associated with feminine terms such as 'she' and 'her'."

"Huh? Oh!" Marco snapped out of his shock. "N-no need to be sorry, I should have known by the fact you are wearing a man's uniform. And no worries, I'll keep that in mind."

"Anyway, moving on." The sergeant opened Marco's envelope. "Let's see what's behind door number two…"


	5. Wartrakk

Chapta Four: Wartrakk

**Chapta Four:** Wartrakk

Say of Da Day: _"Dats da risk of playin' scar poka." - Fergritz_

Due to the scarcity of parts, a lack of vehicles, and a generally lazy attitude - none of the Orks had left the forgery for the past three days. Brudz' bike wasn't big enough to carry four Orks (two of which were Nobs), and the unfortunate Mek had be slogged with the task of producing something Oric and Jamz could ride on.

Oric studied the plan Brudz had drawn. "Yew got ta be jokin'!" he snorted in disgust, "yew wanna use me precious Tankabell ta make _dis_?"

"Dere aint nuthin' else I c'n use ta make somefin dat'll heft yew an' Jamz' big butts!" Brudz argued, "Me bike barely survived one big Nob!"

"Dis is 'n' insult ta Tanky!" Whinged Oric. "I won't let yer do it."

Brudz didn't win many arguments with a Nob, but she wasn't going to lose this one; at least that's what she hoped. If she did lose, she would have to think of another way to transport everyone. "Fine, walk to da waagh, I got me bike, 'n' Cezzy c'n come wiv me but no one else can. Besides, what's more insultin' to ya Tankabell? Bein' a giant scrap heap, or bein' made inta somefin' dat acshually works?"

Eventually, after reviewing the plans, and being assured that there would be plenty of guns added, Oric allowed Brudz to use the remains of his tank to construct a new vehicle. "Fine, but make sure she don't git ruined."  
After folding the designs up (which looked no better than a five-year-olds picture) and stashing them in her back pocket, Brudz walked over to her tool box and flipped it open. "Spanner… hack saw… stick thing… rivet gun… phew, what's dat stink?"

Cezzy's distinct giggle-snorts echoed in the forgery. Everyone looked around and saw her standing in the kitchen doorway, with something large and squishy clutched in her hands.

"What da heck is dat?" Jamz asked, putting down the Gretchin he was going to eat. "Iz dat our lunch?"

"Hee! Hee! Hee!" Cezzy-Po giggled again maniacally. "Dis iz me latest medicle break-frew!" The Dok walked into the forgery, and sat the thing on an empty work bench. Everybody walked over to have a look.

A fleshy lump squirmed on the bench top; it appeared to be some kind of Frankenstein Ork creation. Cezzy poked at it with a scalpel, explaining, "Dis 'ere is a legless squig, which I added bits 'n' pieces to. See, it gots Ork fingahs for legz, Ork ears, an Orky toe fer a tail, 'n' I gave it an extra liver 'n' kidney."

Nobody was really sure what to say. Except for Jamz, who looked hungrily at it. "Can we eats it now?" he asked.

The squealing, grunting, experimental squig tried to clamber onto it's 'legs' but toppled over. Cezzy picked it up, and sat it on it's finger-legs. "It ain fer eatin', Jamz. 'Sides, de yer really wanna be eatin' bits of dem Deff Skullz? Dey's nasty, smelly Orks."

Jamz shrugged; he rarely cared about what he ate, as long as it was filling.

Everyone watched the squig as it walked unsteadily on its finger-legs, stepping backwards and forwards shakily. It overbalanced, and fell of the work bench, falling to the floor; it's stiches split open, and its guts popped out.  
Cezzy shrieked, "Me squiggy! Me poor lil squiggy!" She got to her knees, and started stuffing the organs back into the twitching squig.

"Why's I suddenly feel all 'ungry…" Brudz wondered aloud, walking off towards the pile of scraps to start work on the vehicle.

For the rest of the day, the Orks all worked; Cezzy experimented with her squig, Jamz went to get some more beer, Brudz worked on her machine, and Oric and the Gretchin fixed the hole on the wall.

By the time night came, everyone was hungry and sleepy. The four Orks sat in the middle of the forgery (the kitchen had been turned into a laboratory thanks to Cezzy-Po, and was now a bio hazard) eating meat roasted over the molten metal tubs, and drinking fungus beer Jamz had bought with the teeth they bashed out of the heads of the dead Death Skullz boys earlier that day.

It didn't take long for the arguments to erupt; Jamz had decided that Brudz was not to have any beer until the vehicle was completed; and Cezzy-Po was restricted to two beers due to her inability to hold her drinks very well.

As soon as Jamz and Oric were virtually incapacitated due to the sheer volume of beer consumed, Cezzy approached Brudz who was sulking near a furnace to keep warm. "Hey, sis, yew wanna 'ave shome beer?"

"Dem two turd-fashed bilge-spewz drank it all, or didn't yer notice?" She snapped in reply.

Cezzy stood next to her sister by the furnace; a sly smile crept across her gob. "I kept a few teef… enough ta git us some beer." She pulled a small handful of bloody teeth from her pocket to show Brudz. "So, wadoya say, me 'n' yew go git some beer, eh?"

"Cezzy, dat would be a good idea, 'cept yews fergettin dat we is only two Orks. We run inta any of dem Deff Skullz, we'd be croaked fer sure!"

"What, yew scared?" Cezzy taunted. "Big chikin."

"I aint scared! Jus' concerned fer yer safety, yeah…"

"Yew? Scared fer me safety?" Cezzy scoffed, "Unlikely! Yer jus' bein' a coward. An' I knows a way ter ensure our safety, anyways…" She put the teeth back into her pocket, and pulled a jar out of another pocket, and unscrewed the lid.

"Dat's blue paint," Brudz said looking into the jar. "Are ya suggestin' we put dat on, and pretend ta belong to da Deff Skullz?"

"Yep!" Cezzy nodded. "But we'll also need ta change outta anyfin' red, so's we dun look suspishesh. I's got dat sorted, too. Follow me."

The sisters crept to a corner of the forge where a large messy bench stood. Cezzy quietly pulled open some drawers. Inside, were scraps of clothes. "Let's git changed, den we c'n finally git some beer."

_Twenty minutes later._

None of the street lights worked; most were missing completely, or bent and broken. But that was no concern for an Ork; their cat-like eyes gave them better night vision than most un-genetically modified humans.

Brudz and Cezzy-Po walked down the street with blue faces; their red garments had been swapped for anything that would fit. Brudz wore a convict's shirt, and Cezzy wore black boots; she also took off her bandana. Neither, however, were going to leave their weapons behind.

Many other Orks were out; some drunk, some fighting, some gambling. Brudz spotted a group of Evil Sunz Orks, distinguished by their red clothing, having a face-eating competition.

"Somefin' jus' occurred to me," Brudz whispered to her sister. "What 'appens if we git into a fight wiv our real clan, da Evil Sunz? Dey won't believe we aint wiv dem Deff Skullz."

Cezzy tried to explain to her sister why it was important that they had best not be recognised by the Death Skulls, and that getting into a brawl with the Evil Sunz was a risk worth running. "We killed some o' dem Deff Skullz, so they'd likely kill us if dey recognised us. We aint killed no Evil Sunz, so dey won't be as likely to kick our 'eads in, see?"

The sisters were about to cross the street to get to the pub when a pair of large hands grabbed them on the shoulders. "Oi, where's yew two fink yer goin'?"

Cezzy and Brudz turned around; a large Nob with a blue face stood glaring down at them. He had a large gun slung on his back, a huge knife strapped to his leg, and he wore leather pants with studded leather boots and had a bare chest.

Unsure what she should say, Brudz turned to her sister, only to find the Dok was ogling the Nob from head to toe. "Snap outta it!" She said, punching her preoccupied sister.

"Ow!" Cezzy complained rubbing her side, "Why'd ya do dat?"

"Coz yew was starin' at dat Nob likes 'ee waz a carton o' beer!" Brudz hissed.

The Death Skullz Nob stood there watching as the two sisters' argument dissolved into a cat fight. The pair only stopped when he shot his gun into air, spraying empty shells over the pavement. While the pair were frozen on the spot he growled, "Aint yew pair meant ta go see Gharkhus?"

Brudz and Cezzy shook their heads without speaking.

"Den what's it yer doin?" He asked.

The sisters pointed to the pub, saying at the same time, "beer."

"Yew gettin' beer fer Gharkhus?" He questioned them.

"Look," Brudz said as politely as possible, "Yew musta mistaken us fer someone else. We aint doin' any errands for dis Gharkhus fella. We's goin to da pub, ta get beer fer _ourselves_."

The Nob didn't look impressed; he was about to talk, when Cezzy pipped up, "Yew wanna come?"

His expression was swift to change. "Well, a few more beers would be real good…"

"Exscuze me while I talk to me sistah 'bout somefin'…" Brudz put an arm around her sister's neck, and pulled her away from the Death Skull Nob. "Whadoya tryin' ta do? Git us killed? If 'ee finds out, we're croaked!"

The Nob walked over, and looked at them suspiciously. "Find out wha'?"

"Er…" Brudz tried to think of a believable story. "Dat we's skippin' our duties fer a few drinks…?"

Surprisingly, the Nob smirked. He leant over, saying, "I won't tell if yew don't."

Many beers later, the Orks sat at a crooked table playing scar poker; a game, where alcohol or a winning hand was the only shield between yourself and pain. Several rounds of poker would be played, and each round, the winner would drop out until only one loser was left. That unlucky loser would have to hurt themselves in whatever way had been decided for that match. Two more Death Skullz Orks had joined the sisters and the Nob, and both enjoyed scar poker very much.

Everyone had introduced themselves; the big Nob the sisters met on the street was named Fergritz; he was proficient at stabbing things, and handy with a gun. The two smaller Orks were Oglak and Murkagro, your regular slugga boyz.

"Dey all looks da same…" One of the slugga boyz muttered. In actual fact, he had his cards facing outwards and was too drunk to realise he was looking at the pattern on the back of the cards. "I finks I's gonna win dis one…"

It was the last round of poker to decide the loser; Oglak and Cezzy were pitted against each other.

"I gots a flush," the Dok announced, putting her hand down.

Oglak did the same. "I got five aces."

"Ba! Ha! Ha! Ha!" Fergritz laughed drunkenly. "Turn da cards ovuh, stupid."

Oglak did as he was told, revealing two three's, a jack, a nine, and a five. "Aww, fridgin' dammit, can we redo dat round?"

Brudz snorted with glee; the bet for the round was that everyone got to smash a beer bottle on the loser's head. "No way, it aint our fault yer too blind ta see da difrince 'tween one side o' da cards an' de uv'er. But 'ere, yew c'n use dese coz I feels sorry for ya, sorta." She handed over her driving goggles to Oglak. "It'll 'elp ta save yer eyes frum all da glass, heh heh…"

Once Oglak had put on the goggles, the smashing began. He was left slumped on the floor, bleeding. "Dooya fink maybes we ovuh did it a wee bit?" Murkagro asked.

"Ee wanted ta be dealed in, soz it's iz own fault." Fergritz replied with a shrug. "Dat's da risk of playin' scar poka."

And so the night went, with more scar poker, and more beer. And then some more scar poker and even more beer.

The two sisters staggered through the door to the forge, arms over each others shoulders and a bottle in each hand. The sun had risen a long time ago.

"Boss, dere's some Deff Skullz walkin' in!" A Gretchin yelled out.

Oric ran over, gun raised, only to lower it screaming as loud as possible, "WHERE DA 'ELL 'AVE YEW TWO BEEN?"

Brudz tried to talk, only to collapse to the floor vomiting. Cezzy drank the last of her beer, burped, and sat on a crate.

"It's nearly lunch time," Oric growled angrily, "An' dat one's sposed ta be buildin' me 'n' Jamz a fingy ta travel on! Why da flammin' 'ell she gots a fork stuck in 'er 'ead? An' why's yew all dressed in Deff Skullz outfits?"

Brudz dragged herself across the floor; she apparently had no use of her legs anymore. "I jus' lost a game o' scar, poka, dassall… nufern ta worry 'bouts…"

Cezzy bent over and pulled the fork out of her sisters' skull, nearly falling backwards. "We was 'avin' da foo beersh wiv Fergritz, musta lost track 'o' time, yeh… hic…" She held onto a crate, and lowered herself to the ground, ready to fall asleep. "Anywayz, g'night gwumpy."

Oric was too angry to say anything; he just stood there making snarling sounds, and shaking with anger. Jamz stomped over, looking down at his sisters. "Did yew two go to da pub?"

"No…" Brudz lied instinctively.

"Den where'd ya go?" Jamz asked, tilting his head, but there was no response. Both his sisters were asleep.

Brudz was startled awake when she felt the cold wash of water over her face; it wasn't gently, and it sure didn't feel refreshing. Instead, she felt like she was drowning.

Oric pulled Brudz' head out from the toilet bowl, the flush chain still in one hand. The mek coughed and spluttered; she gulped in fresh air, only to have her head once again thrust into the water. Oric pulled the chain flushing the toilet. Where she resurfaced, Brudz was fully awake. "Yuk! You filthy Ork! What makes yer fink I'll do anyfin fer an ass'ole like yew?"

"I let yer sleep fer two hours in yer own puke puddle, dat was more'n' generous of me." Oric said standing up, and throwing Brudz out of the bathroom door into the forgery. "NOW I WANTS ME NEW VEHICLE SO GIT A MOVALONG YA GIT!"

The mek got to her feet, coughing up some water. Her clothes smelt of stomach fluids, beer and cigar smoke, but she ignored it. She had a throbbing head ache, and felt giddy. However, she wasn't about to say no to an already enraged Nob. She felt lucky her brother hadn't already wrapped his claws around her throat and throttled her.

"Yeah, yeah, don't git yer panties inna knot yer dumb Ork, I's on me way…" Brudz mumbled, heading to her work station.

"Body parts! Oh! How wundaful!" Cezzy-Po was in a giant laboratory-slash-hospital. Shelves were lined with organs, limbs, and bits of flesh. She ran over to one shelf and grabbed some livers; from another, she grabbed intestines. She filled her arms with jars and bags of body parts, before taking them over to a band new sparkly metal bench.

Cezzy-Po put everything down, and trundled over to a surgery bed where an unconscious battle-torn Ork lay. "Ah, how convenient, shomeone ta experiment on! Tee-hee!" She kicked off the brakes, and wheeled the bed over beside her bench.

Beside the bench was a cupboard. Cezzy pulled open the doors; the sparkle of all the stabby things inside nearly blinded her. There were needles, scalpels, knives, saws, drills, callipers, tongs, scissors, more needles, a pizza cutter and endless amounts of other surgical equipment.

The Dok grabbed a few items and prepared to cut open her patient. She planned to cut him open and take out the less needed organs and replace them with some more useful ones (like a second liver).

In final preparation, Cezzy put on a pair of headphones, and turned on her music player. "Time fer cuttin'!"

A chain was hung from the upper rafters in the forgery. At the end of it, was Cezzy-Po, hanging upside down with the chain wrapped around her. Several feet below her were a bunch of Gretchin standing on a stool, clawing at her hungrily.

"…Got offa plane to da country da-da da… drove to da mountain na na na… crack on da corna 'n' shumone dead… la la la, la la la la-la. Dey gots guns on 'em yea, eh, eh eh-eh…"

"SHUT YER MOUF!" Jamz throw an old bone at Cezzy-Po, rudely awakening her from her slumber.

"Gorkers! Huh? What da? Where'd I put dat pancreas!" She stammered, confused. "Hmm? Aaaagh! Git away from me, yew ugly snots! I'll make ya inta me next test subjects, if yer git any closa!"

The Gretchin scrambled away; they didn't want to risk being near Cezzy-Po now that she was awake after seeing what she did to the squig.

Jamz raised his gun, causing Cezzy to panic. "Don't shoot me!" She screamed, "I swears I didn' sell any of ya organs, I SHWEAR!"

The gun burst to life for a few seconds and the chain broke. Cezzy plunged towards the ground only to land in Jamz' open mega-claw uncomfortably. "I 'ad da greatest dream…" She groaned painfully.

"I wants yer ta shave me back," Jamz growled. "But I wasn' gonna let yer go anywheres near me wiv a blade in yer 'ands whiles yew were wasted now, waz I?"

He grabbed on end of the chain, stood Cezzy on the ground and pulled; she spun around like a spinning top, and nearly fell into a tub of molten metal. "Geez!" She whinged, "Be a bit gentla, wouldja? Me stomach's feelin' foul still."

As punishment for sneakily going to the pub when they were strictly ordered not to drink beer, Brudz and Cezzy were worked hard for two days without any food. Brudz had her leg shackled together after trying to do a runner for the meat and Cezzy sustained several broken ribs after accidentally cutting one of Jamz' main arteries open from a shaky (underfed) hand.

It was almost sundown when Brudz picked up the last rivet. She had managed to talk Jamz into letting her sister help her. "Jus' dis one liddle rivet…" She said wearily. "Den I c'n eat 'n' sleep 'n' be as lazy as I pleases."

Cezzy prodded her sore chest tenderly. "Yeah, an' I c'n sleep off me brokin ribz." She picked up the lump of metal, and held it against the back of the rivet.

The rivet gun rattled for a few seconds, and the job was done.

"Finished!" Brudz screeched out with joy, throwing the rivet gun to the ground.

Before them stood a thing big enough to support two large Nobs with ease. It was made from the caterpillar track and gears from the right side of the tank, with some extra wheels added to the front and sides for stability and steering purposes. Two seats were perched above the track, with foot rests either side so it could be rode like a motor bike. At the back a shoddy engine was affixed to turn the gears and provide a backrest for the second seat. The handle bars at the front were attached a tripod of wheels with which to control the direction of the vehicle; a machine gun was also mounted on them, as well as the throttle. Something that resembled a train's snow plough was bolted over the tripod of wheels for protection.

"So, what iz it, exactly?" Cezzy-Po asked.

"Just some kinda wartrakks, I spose." Brudz surmised. "It don't fit inta any uv'er category dat I c'n fink of."

Jamz and Oric came over to inspect the vehicle. "Whadija do to da name plate!?" Oric said in horror, as he saw the scrap of metal that used to be his pillow was riveted to the front of the handle bars. "Did I tells yer ta change it? No! It sposed ta say TANKABELL!"

"I 'ad ta cut it shorta," Brudz snapped, "'coz it waz too damn big! Yew'll jus' 'ave ta do wiv 'Tanka' fer da moment. Anywayz, undo dese stupid chains on me legs."

"Now don't be so 'asty." Oric said, mounting the vehicle. "I gots ta make sure dis fing works, first."

"I wants ta drive!" Jamz snarled, reaching out to grab Oric. "Git off!"

Envisioning her newest piece of work being caught between two Nobs fighting, Brudz quickly calmed her brother. "I made da back seat 'speshly fer yew, Jamz. It got a back rest, an yew c'n shoot yer guns coz ya hands are free."

Jamz contemplated it for a moment, before deciding that a back rest didn't sound too bad after all. He jumped on behind Oric. "Don't crash us, or I's'll kill yer."

"Damn right yews 'ad betta not crash dat fing," Brudz lectured, "Yew do, an' I aint makin' yer a new one! You'll be walkin' to da waagh."

The vehicle took a few turns to start. It rumbled to life and a cloud of thick black smoke erupted from the exhaust.

"It's alive!" Cezzy joked.

Oric and Jamz listened as Brudz gave them a quick run-down on the vehicle. "Now, dis fing can't do sharp turn coz it's a single trakk. Da only fing steerin' it, iz doze fwree wheels," she said pointing to the three wheels behind the plough. "yew try an' turn it too tight, an' most likely yew'll just roll or somefin'. Also, dis fing needs a battery ta start. I madez it so, if'n dat battery dies, yer can start it up by 'ookin' Jamz' mega armour up to da engine at da back dere."  
The Gretchin opened the large fold-up door which opened onto the street. The girls walked out onto the pavement to watch. The boys drove the 'wartrakk' out slowly. "We'll be back inna while." Oric said, and the two Nobs drove off.

It was a noisy contraption, which spewed vast amounts of smoke, but that was nothing unusual for an Ork vehicle. Brudz and Cezzy watched as it disappeared down the stretch of road, wobbling slightly.


	6. Arrival At Octavius Three

Chapta Five: Arrival At Octavius Three

**Chapta Five:**Arrival At Octavius Three

Say of Da Day: _"Ev'ry fetish beginz ere__!"__–__ Pub Gretchin._

The meeting with sergeant Barthees had been a slap in the face for Marco Fezz. He had imagined that the head of the incredible expedition would have been someone who was highly esteemed and honourable. All he saw was a paranoid, self-preserving, pessimistic, cigar-smoking, disrespectful creep with three stripes on his shoulders; he wasn't even an officer.

Marco spent the last hour of his time left on Oblivious convincing himself he didn't just volunteer to jump into hell head first. He had learned that their base of operations on the planet Octavius Three would be underground, hidden from view and well fortified. Supplies would be shipped in every three months, and they had a means with which to make contact with Oblivious. And why would they be given three sentinels if someone wanted them dead? He concluded that the Sergeant must have been smoking very special cigars to think they were all doomed.

At 1850hrs, the research team boarded the ship and strapped themselves in, ready for takeoff. Marco and Sam sat either side of the sergeant, each drowned in their own thoughts.

_One of these idiots better know how to cook. _Sam thought.

_Heh heh heh, they never found the whisky I smuggled on board. _Barthees smirked in his head.

_I need to go to the toilet…_ Marco sighed inwardly. He'd have to hold it in until they landed.

Nobody spoke until the engines spooled up, sending a faint pulsating vibration through the hull, when Marco finally decided to confront the sergeant. "Sarge…"

"That's sergeant Barthees to you, asshole." The sergeant said, looking straight ahead.

"Yes Sergeant... Sergeant Barthees, if somebody wanted to kill you, why would they go to so much effort with all the equipment and facilities?" Marco asked.

Barthees pointed to a screen not far from them. "See that TV there?" he said imitating a gypsy a fortune teller, "Just watch it carefully, and everything will become clear to you, my child."

Curious, Marco and Sam watched the screen intensely. All they could see was the tarmac behind the ship, where a man in a red coat and a peak hat stood at attention.

Sam squinted her eyes. "Is that a Commissar?" she asked.

"This must be a really important mission if a Commissar has come to see us off!" Marco said excitedly. He suddenly felt very elated to going to Octavius Three.

The ship began to rise; the turbulence from the engines caused the Commissar's coat flutter, but he still stood rigid. He began to rise a white gloved hand.

Marco was left so stunned he lost momentary control of his muscles. "I'm sorry, but I just f-farted." He stammered, still staring at the screen in shock.

As the ship rose the Commissar became smaller and smaller on the view screen; he was still giving the ship the finger when he was no longer visible.

Sam, who was almost completely stoic in her expressions until now, had a look of astonishment on her face. "Okay, I knew this was going a troublesome adventure, but I didn't know just how troublesome until now."

"What the heck did you _do _to aggravate one of the highest ranking officers in the Imperial Guard!?" Marco shouted at Barthees, coming back to reality.

With a shrug, he replied, "I don't know why he found it so offensive that I slept with his daughter. It's not like she was a virgin, or anything."

"Somebody turn this ship around!" Marco screamed, "Cats might have nine lives but I don't!"

A calm female voice spoke over the speaker ships, "Could the passengers please refrain from using excessive vocals. Thank you."

In no less than an hour the ship had entered the planet's atmosphere and was preparing to land. They had travelled far above the land and sea passing over a great desert, then tundra, and then finally a mountainous region which was covered in forest and patches of snow. The ship landed in the eastern foot of the mountains, the side closest to the coast.

Everyone exited the ship once the all-clear was given. Barthees, Sam and Marco stood to one side as a bunch of low ranking guardsmen quickly unloaded the cargo. They took the supplies over to a bare patch of ground; the pilot walked over with a small controller and pressed a button. The ground opened before them, revealing a wide ramp which descended below ground. Lights lit the concrete tunnel up, and the guardsmen took the cargo down the ramp like ants. The last of the cargo to disappear into the tunnel was the three sentinels.

Once all the guardsmen had finished their duties, the squad entered the ship again. The pilot with the control walked over to Barthees and handed the device and a thick manual over to the sergeant.

"This is your key to the base, and that's the manual that tells you about everything in the base," the pilot spoke frankly, "don't lose either of them. There are three entrances for the base – cargo and vehicle port, man-hole starboard side, and man-hole port side. I'm sure you can figure our how to use this."

"But there's four buttons," Barthees observed. "What's the last one for?"

"Read the manual." The pilot replied. He turned around and walked back to his ship.

"Damn it's cold out here," Marco shivered. "Why'd they have to put the base here? Why couldn't we have been on the coast or something?"

"Like humans," Sam spoke, bracing herself so she didn't quiver from the cold like Marco, "Orks prosper the most in fertile lands. So putting the base near the coast is a giant no-no."

"But that contradicts the Commissar's plan to kill Barthees," Marco argued. "If I'm gonna die too, I might as well spend my last moments getting a sun tan and building sand castles."

"Why build sandcastles when you can build snowmen?" Barthees spoke heartily, "Besides, I always wanted to have a winter holiday."

Sam was becoming impatient of waiting in the cold. "Who cares, let's just get inside."

"Oh, I gotta pee! Be right back." Marco ran towards the closest cover: a large rock jutting out of the ground.

Barthees pressed the button to open the port side manhole.

The rock Marco was urinating behind began to slide away revealing the manhole. "The rock!" Marco screeched in surprise. He side-stepped - following the rock as he peed.

"You go first Marco," Barthees ordered. "Let us know if there's any death traps down there."

Grumbling Marco did up his pants when he finished. He walked over, and climbed down the manhole. He didn't think there would be any traps, but the mere mention of them made him nervous despite his beliefs.

The hole was quite deep and took Marco a few minutes to reach the bottom of a dimly lit passage. "No death traps! Just a boring looking tunnel." He called back up.

Sam climbed down, followed closely by Barthees. Once the three were all inside, the sergeant pressed a button on the wall near the ladder, and closed the manhole.

"I want to go have a look around," Marco said looking up and down the tunnel.

Barthees flipped open the manual to find a map of the base. "You do that. Just don't break anything – and don't eat anything."

As Marco started to run down the tunnel, Sam called out, "Make sure you have your headset turned on in case you get lost or something."

"Don't tell him that, that's what I was praying for." Barthees whispered.

Ignoring Barthees, Sam walked down the tunnel in the opposite direction to Marco. "See you later, Sergeant."

Marco had been walking through tunnels for the past half an hour. He found many rooms - including the laundry, mess hall and kitchen, a toilet, living quarters, and many empty rooms. He turned the corner and saw that at the end of the short tunnel was a door not like any of the others he had seen; it was a large double-sliding door with two red crosses painted on them.

_Maybe that's the hospital wing,_ Marco thought. _I wonder what sort of stuff they gave us? I hope they remembered to give us plenty of anti-inflammatory drugs, I'm allergic to so many things!_

Marco approached the doors. They slid open automatically, and he walked in. It was dark until the lights sensed someone and turned on.

_What are all those things hanging in plastic bags? _He wondered and walked over to a shelf supporting multitudes of semi-transparent plastic bags. Marco looked closer, and read the label:

BIO MATERIAL – UNAUTHORISED PERSONNEL DO NOT OPEN.

CONTAINS LAB GROWN HUMAN ORGAN.

KIDNEYS – B TYPE.

"Oh my God! That's gross!" Marco ripped his hand away from the plastic bag as if he had burnt himself and stumbled backwards. The colour in his face had drained completely away.

"I think I'm gonna spew!"

The whole room was filled with organs, blood synthesising machines, skin cultures, and other spare parts for humans.

"What's wrong with you?" A voice asked.

Marco jumped with fright, nearly crashing into a blood synthesiser. "It's Dr. Frankenstein!"

"Relax, it's just me." Sam looked at the bagged organs with interest. "I can't believe they went to all this effort with the hospital wing. Barthees must have been right, they want him to live in hell, not die."

Marco was crawling feebly towards the exit. "I hate this place…"

Sam picked a bagged liver off the shelf. "Hey Marco," she said smiling deviously, "catch." She tossed the liver under-arm style towards Marco.

Instinctively, Marco looked over his shoulder; only to have a bagged liver slap into his face.

The bagged liver fell to the floor, and Marco sprinted out of the doors and down the hall. "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahh! Aaaaaaaaaaah! Aaaaaah!" He screamed.

After inspecting the equipment and ammunition store, Barthees walked down the tunnel towards where the living quarters were located. At the other end of the tunnel he saw Marco run around the corner screaming. Marco zigzagged his way towards the sergeant.

"What the hell is your problem?" Barthees yelled. He suddenly took an offensive stance, whipping out a pistol and aiming it down the tunnel. "Are there Orks down there?" He asked serious but worried.

Private Fezz ran behind the sergeant and cowered. "N-n-no… w-w-worse than that, serge…" he stammered.

"Then what? Holy mother of the raisin-skinned emperor!" Barthees shifted his pistol left and right, his eyes glued where the tunnel turned ninety degrees towards the hospital wing. "It's not the Tyrannids is it?"

Marco replied feebly, "No… Sam threw a liver in my face…" And proceeded to spew all over the floor.

The sergeant lowered his pistol. "That's _it?" _ He said astounded. "You came screaming down the hall, because Sam threw a liver in your face? Grow some balls, you pussy! And clean that filthy mess up!" Disgusted and irritated, Barthees walked off.

Pressing a button on the panel located on the wall, the door to the living quarters slid open. Barthees walked in; one side of the room was lined with bunks, and the other was lined with shelves and built-in closets.

"This just won't do," Barthees thought aloud.

He exited and walked to the next door down. Inside the room was almost bare except for two two-seater couches and a dinky coffee table in the centre. "Looks promising…as a bedroom for _moi_."

Again, Barthees walked out and down to the next door. To his delight, there was a single pool table. "Am I seeing things?" He said and ran over to the green and brown luxury. "Wait a minute… where are the balls and cues?" He looked around the room and inside the table. There were no pool balls, or cues with which to hit them. Instead, he found a hand-written note which read the following:

Don't PANIC. I'm sure the Orks will be more entertaining than a game of pool, anyway.

Signed: Commissar Lindel.

"You're a sick bastard, Commissar!" Barthees yelled out in frustration, scrunching up the note. "Where the hell did you put the balls and cues!"

Marco was just mopping up his spew, when Barthees slowly stomped out of the door fatherest from him. The sergeant had a look of fire in his eyes. "Oh dear…" Marco whimpered, and quickly shuffled back to the laundry with his mop and bucket.

Barthees contacted the two privates over radio. "Sam, Marco, meet me at the mechanic shop. Right. Now."

Sam was the last to arrive. When she walked into the mechanic shop, Marco was sitting on a crate and Barthees was inspecting a sentinel.

"Private Sam reporting, sergeant." The latest arrival announced. "Are we heading out?"

Barthees jumped down from the sentinel. "We have a mission," he said. "Can either of you make perfect spheres?"

Sam rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I learned how to make those at the academy." She replied sarcastically.

Barthees looked to Marco for an answer.

"Uh…" Marco looked at his feet. "I can make a cube…"

"I don't want a bloody cube!" The sergeant snapped, "If I wanted anything except a sphere, I would have mentioned it!"

"If you don't mind me asking, sergeant," Sam asked, "why do you need spheres?"

Barthees pulled out a scrunched piece of paper from his pocket. "In our living quarters is a pool table," he explained. "But there's no balls or cues." He tossed the scrunched note to Sam.

"I wish the Commissar wouldn't do stuff that punishes all of us…" Sam complained. "Maybe we can find something spherical in the supplies?"

Marco got off his crate and walked over to Sam asking, "Can I read that?"

"No!" Barthees barked. "We've wasted enough time. Sam's suggestion wasn't such a bad one, so let's get to work. We are going to scour this death pit from top to bottom, looking for anything that could be used as pool balls. Cues are not a problem; I can make some new ones out of almost anything. Also, while you're at it, keep your eyes open for smokes, cigars, alcohol and cake. I'm going to catch up on some sleep. I'll help later."

The sergeant left the room, leaving Marco and Sam behind. Marco looked around; the mechanic shop was quite large. "Boy, there sure are a lot of crates here considering there are only three of us."

"What a hide!" Sam whinged. "He's leaving us to do all the work while he sleeps!"

"This sucks…" Marco sulked. "Guess we'd better start, or we'll never get this finished."

Sam walked over to a pile of crates; she jumped on top, and lay down. "Screw that," she said. "I'm going to have a nap too."

Marco was tired as well, but the thought of what the sergeant might do to him if he slept on the job stopped him from following in Sam's steps. "Uh… I'm still feeling energetic so I'll start going through the crates."

"Okay," Sam replied, "but keep it down."

Back at the living quarters Barthees was kicking off his boots and he took off his helmet, revealing his greying blonde hair. Ha sat down on a bunk with a sigh of relief; it had been a long time since he had been able to take a decent nap.

He lay down and rolled over so he was facing the wall. He undid his left breast pocket and took out a small black and yellow teddy bear.

"It's been a while since we slept on a bunk, aye, Kev?" Kissing the bear, he put it back into his breast pocket and went to sleep.

Hours had passed; Marco found a few useful things that were not spherical, but which he pocketed. He was onto his thirty-second crate. "Radio equipment," he read off the next crate. "I doubt anything spherical will be in there, but I better check anyway."

Sure enough, the crate was full of bland radio equipment. Marco closed the lid; he was bored, and sick of sifting through crates. He decided to take a look at the sentinels - he had never seen one up close before.

The sentinel was a walking machine with two legs and a rectangular metal-composite hull perched on top of the legs. The three sentinels were all turned off though, and their legs were folded elegantly beneath the hull like a hen sitting on eggs.

Marco walked around and inspected the machines; the cockpit had rectangular slits for view on the front, and either side. The engine was at the back, with large mufflers sticking vertically up as if they were llama ears. There was a rotating turret gun mounted on the top of the hull, and one of the three sentinels had a large laser cannon attached to the starboard side of the hull. Marco noticed that the two without the laser cannons had a pair of arms with vice grips, which made them look like a very out of proportion tyrannosaurus-rex. The hatch to the cockpit was on the port side of the hull, and mounted to the back of the machines - behind the engine - were lock-up cargo compartments. They were relatively small, but large enough to fit all of the pilot's camping gear.

"I bet I know which one the sergeant's gonna claim," Sam said jumping down from the crates and walking over to the sentinels.

Marco looked right at the sentinel with the laser cannon. "Yeah, so do I. Oh well, that kind of suits me anyway. I wouldn't know how to use one of these things. I haven't even got a driver's licence."

"Really?" Sam asked sounding surprised. "Oh well, don't worry, I'm sure there's plenty of time for you to learn how to drive these things."

The radio crackled to life, interrupting Sam and Marco conversation. "You two," Barthees voice said out of their headphones, "What's your status on the search? Found anything?"

"Nothing spherical, alcoholic, or carcinogenic sergeant…" Marco replied quietly smirking. He pulled a pair of pocket knives, and handed one to Sam.

Sam gave Marco the thumbs up and hid the pocket knife in her boot. "I approximate that searching this base from top to bottom will take a week, sergeant. And I doubt we will find anything today."

With a yawn, the sergeant gave his orders. "There's three levels to this base, each of us can search one level. Marco, you do level one. I will search level two, and Sam you can search level three."

"Can I search a different level?" Marco complained, "I don't want to have to search the hospital wing…"

"If you're lucky, Marco, maybe you'll find a spare pair of balls amongst the other organs while you're in there." Barthees replied sardonically. "Now, I'm coming to the mechanic shop to hand you maps. Assuming, that is, that the computer lab has a photocopier of course."


	7. Da Snakebites

Chapta Six: Da Snakebites

**Chapta Six:** Da Snakebites

Say of Da Day: _"__I __'__ate wordz wiv too many silabells in __'__em.__"–__ Oric._

For two days the four Orks had been travelling through the desert. There had been no sign of any waagh, nor any signs of life for that matter - and they only had two days worth of fuel and food left.

Brudz stopped her bike, and Jamz and Oric pulled up beside her. "Show me dat map, Cezzy," She asked her sister, who was riding in the side cart. "We shoulda been somewheres by now."

Cezzy unfolded the piece of paper and handed it to her sister. She had been designated the navigator for the trip as the two nobs hands were too big to handle the small map, and Brudz was driving.

Brudz studied the map; all it consisted of was two dots and a skewed 'z' shaped line. "Dis map iz uzeless!" she said and scrunched it up. She hadn't actually seen the map until now. "Yew've bin tellin' me ta drive souf-east when dis fing dozen ev'n 'ave norf marked. We cud be anywherez!"

Cezzy snatched the map back. "I's doin' da best I's can!" She stood up and looked over Brudz' shoulder at the crude compass tied to the handle bar. "Don't git up me when ya can't even uze a compass propaly! It's da wrong side up, ya moron."

The sisters began to bicker but not for long; Jamz jumped off the track and stomped over. "Are yew two tellin' me we'z lost?" He growled angrily.

"Not really lost, Jamz…" Cezzy replied nervously. "Jus' a liddle… off course."

Jamz didn't like the response; being late to the waagh outraged him. "I'll beat yer headz in!" He yelled out raising his mega claw, ready to attack.

"Put yer foot down, sistah!" Cezzy squealed.

Brudz' bike rumbled to life, and the wheels spun in the dirt for a moment before speeding off; they barely escaped Jamz' crushing blow. "It's me hand, not me foot, me hand."

Jamz snorted with disgust; his target escaped. "I'll git yew two fer makin' me late ta dis waagh!" he yelled, and lumbered over to the trakk again. "Git off, I'm drivin' dis fing!" he said, pushing Oric off the driver's seat.

Oric was stunned but didn't argue; he was sick of driving anyway, and wanted a break. His butt was barely touching down on the seat when Jamz blitzed off full throttle. Oric held on for dear life.

Jamz swivelled the turret gun towards the fleeing bike with one hand, and steered with the other. "A bit o' lead might git me point 'cross to dem girlz…"

Cezzy gripped the sides of the side cart tightly; it was a bumpy ride. She looked over her shoulder, only to become more alarmed. "Jamz' aimin' dat big gun fing at uz!" She yelled over the whistle of the wind.

"Hang on, I'z gonna press da magik butt'n!" Brudz replied, and flipped open a small cap on the handle bar, revealing a red button.

"What magik button?" Cezzy asked craning her neck to look.

Brudz jammed her thumb on the button, saying "Dis one!" The motor revved hard, and flames shot out of the exhaust.

Cezzy screamed and ducked as low as she could as the bike sped up; she wasn't as confident in the bike as her sister was. The bike veered sharply to the left as Brudz dodged Jamz' turret fire - which raked the ground in random, uncoordinated patterns.

"I 'ope yer didn' put a 'magik butt'n' on dat trakk dey's ridin'!" Cezzy said with a shiver, realising how horrifying it would be if the two Nobs caught up with them.

"No, I wasn' dat stoopid." Brudz grinned. Something faraway on the horizon caught her eye. "Oi' Cezzy, can yew see anyfin' ovuh dere?"

The Dok squinted her eyes; the mid afternoon sun was making it hard to see. "I finks I see a buildin' or somefin'."

As they drove closer, what appeared to be a fortified wall slowly emerged from behind the curvature of the horizon. Brudz drove towards it like a madman.

The flame slowly vanished from the muffler, and the engine's revs decreased. "Damn, outta me magik speed boostin' jooce." Brudz cursed.

Cezzy was inwardly relieved; although she didn't want to get shot, she didn't like fast vehicles very much either. And now that they were well ahead of Jamz and Oric, going very fast wasn't necessary.

Slowly the wall grew taller, and the tops of shabby buildings could be distinguished; it was some kind of Ork settlement. "What if they'z da enemy?" Cezzy asked concerned.

"Wouldja ravuh risk dis place, or Jamz?" Brudz replied still flying towards the settlement at full speed.

After weighing the two up Cezzy decided heading for the settlement was a risk worth taking. "'Kay, 'kay, yeh, I dun wanna be caught by dat angry Nob."

Images of beer, fresh squig meat, and spare parts were already beginning to flood Brudz' mind – and Cezzy's; although the Dok thought of spare body parts rather than spare bits of machinery. If all went well the Orks in the settlement would let them in and not cut their stomachs open and feed them to the squigs – or so the girls hoped.

Soon the walls were in clear view; and within a couple of minutes, they were approaching the settlement. Brudz was still pelting across the dirt and clumpy grass fast.

"I fink yer c'n slow down dere, sistah." Cezzy advised. "Dem walls are gittin' very close now."

"I's da one drivin', so shud ya yap." Brudz replied; she hated people telling her how to ride her bike. She went to apply the brakes, but nothing happened. "Wuh oh…"

"Whadoya mean, 'WUH-OH'?" Cezzy said realising something bad just happened. "Why aint we slowin' down!?"

Brudz scratched her head. "Me brakes failed 'gain… heh heh… AAAAAAAH!"

Three Orks stationed on guard duty outside of the settlement's entrance looked up, and saw a bike with two screaming Orks speeding towards them.

"Who'z dey?" One of the guards asked, puffing on a smoke.

His fellows shrugged, one replying, "Dunno, but dey aint one've uz."

"I don't finks dey's slowin' down…"

"Run!"

_CRASH!!_

"…Why'z I so dizzy…" Cezzy began to stir; she had blacked out when the bike crashed into the wall. She awoke to find herself being dragged by her arms across the rough ground. She felt sore all over.

As her vision returned, she looked around; Brudz was being dragged beside her. She was still out cold.

The pair was being dragged up the main path of the settlement; the gates looked far away, and a trail of black smoke above the walls signalled where the bike had stacked. Cezzy was starting to wonder if not fleeing Jamz would have been safer.

The Orks in the settlement looked odd to Cezzy; they wore animal skins and horned helmets. Their skin was covered in red swirly tattoos, and many of them wore snake-skin belts.

"I finks dis one's wakin' up," Cezzy's captor said to the Ork dragging Brudz.  
"Keep a close eye on dat one," The Ork replied, "We dun want dem gettin' away 'fore da Boss seez dem."

"Brudz, wake up!" Cezzy whispered. "Wake up now, yer dum mek! I finks we'z in big trouble."

Cezzy and Brudz had been dragged inside a building; Brudz still did not stir. The sisters were dumped on the dirt floor; not far in front of them, on a throne made from animal bones, sat a very large Ork.

The Ork looked more ferocious than the other Orks; Cezzy guessed this was the clan's Waaghboss. He was swathed in animal pelts and jewellery made from animal bones, rocks, and ceramics. The two most distinguished features were his large squig-skull helmet and the snake skins stapled to his chin, dangling down to form an obscure beard.

"Me boyz said yew two put a big dent in me wall…" The huge Ork said, glaring down at Cezzy and Brudz.

"Eh heh heh heh…" Cezzy laughed nervously. "Sorry 'bout dat, me sistah says 'er brakes failed 'gain…"

Something outside made a squealing sound. The sound got closer, until something small ran through the door then between the legs of the Orks, and over to Cezzy-Po. "Squiggy!" Cezzy was delighted to see her experimental pet. "Yew savived da crash! I fawt yew waz dead fer shaw."

Cezzy picked up the small ugly beast. It was the same squig from the forge – with many new improvements.

"Iz dat yaw pet?" The Waagh Boss asked, interested. He leaned closer to take a look. "Iz dat a legless squig?"

Cezzy held the creature up for the Waagh Boss to see. "It used ta be, 'til I modified it." She then explained what she did to it. "It'z got ten Orky fingas fer legz, betta Orky earz, A toe fer a tail, extra guts, 'n' ta stop dem extra guts poppin' out, I screwed a metal plate ta da fing's belly."

All the Orks in the room looked at the squig with interest; especially the Boss. "So, yer a Dok, den?" The Boss asked.

"Dat's right Boss," Cezzy replied feeling less in danger of loosing her life, "an' me sistah dere's a mek. Albeit, a dodgy one, but a mek none da less."

Suddenly and Ork ran into the room. "Boss, dere's two Nobs attackin' da entrance! An' one's got mega armour!"

Sure enough when Cezzy paid attention, there were gun shots in the distance. "Dat wud be me brutha 'n' a friend o' ours…" She confessed. "Dey's da reason we ended up 'ere."

"…Doh shiiit…" Brudz blinked her eyes a few times as she regained her consciousness. She put her hands over her throbbing head. "Didja say Jamz iz 'ere? Where's dat bike o' mine… ow, me 'ead feels all painy…"  
"What's dey fink dere doin', makin' a mess o' me wallz!" The Boss growled.

Not wishing her brother and friend to fall victim to the snake-obsessed Orks, Cezzy put a suggestion to the Boss. "How 'bouts yer let me 'n' me sistah try 'n' sort dis out, so's 'opefully none of yer boyz 'ave ta git 'urt. If we fails, den yer c'n throw all da meat at 'em yer want."

The Waagh Boss contemplated the idea and agreed. "Fine, but 'urry up 'fore deys do any more damage to me wallz."

Cezzy hurried for the entrance; Brudz followed reluctantly, winging and grumbling about her head. Three of the Boss's body guards followed the sisters in case they tried to do a runner.

As they approached the settlement's gates, the body of an Ork flew by - nearly crashing into them. Cezzy and Brudz walked out into the desert. A gang of Orks were trying to fend the Nobs off, but with little luck; Oric's club and Jamz' shoota was doing a fine job of holding them back.

"Yew boyz git back 'ere!" One of the Boss's body guards yelled out. The Orks attacking the Nobs quickly retreated back into the settlement. "Now, talk to 'em!" The Ork ordered the sisters.

Brudz shot the bossy Ork a dirty look before turning her attention to the Nobs. "I's got 'urt lots, so lis'en up 'coz I aint got da pashence fer yew two at da moment." She yelled out, one hand pointing at the boys accusingly and the other gripping her head. "If yer don' wanna die, coz trust me dere's plenty o' Orks in dis camp dat'll be willin' ter maim yer, den stop bein' all killy 'n' all dat stuff."

There was an awkward and almost scary silence as everybody stood waiting for the Nobs to reply. "I 'opes Jamz don't remember whys 'ee was tryin' ta kill us…" Cezzy whispered to her sister.

Oric slug his club onto his back and Jamz stashed his shoota. The mega-armoured Ork looked from his sisters to the crashed bike. "Idiots! Yew'll 'ave ter walk to da waagh now."

"Yew won't be walkin' no warez." The Waagh Boss trudged through the gates followed by a horde of Nobs. "Seize dem girlz, dey aint leavin' an' neiver iz dem Nobz! Bring 'em to me 'ut. We'z got some stuff ta talk 'bout…"

It was pitch black outside by the time the four Orks were wrapping up the conference with the Waagh Boss. His name was Uurgrin Safik Greldor; leader of the small but ferocious Snakebite warband. He had spoken with the fourEvil Sunz about sparing their lives if Cezzy-Po and Brudz helped him and his clan with a certain dilemma.

The more beer Uurgrin and his body guards drank, the more they told the Evil Sunz. It had been revealed to them that the Snakebites were a nomadic, wild clan. This particular warband relied heavily on their cyboars – cybernetic boars – for transport. The only other means of transport available to them was their space ship, which was impractical unless flying into space (can you imagine trying to hunt, or even sneak up on your enemy in a dodgy, noisy space ship?).

Ever since setting up camp in the desert, the Snakebite warband had nothing but bad luck. First their cyboars fell ill and began dieing one by one; the animals were from another planet, and unused to the local diseases. Their Meks and lone Mad Dok were snowed under with trying to cure their beloved cyboars, leaving no time to do anything else. Then, three of the four Meks and their only Mad Dok died in a tragic accident involving their space ship (an engine exploded near where the cyboars were being treated).

And as if that wasn't enough, their only surviving Mek had both his hands cut off a week later (it wasn't really an accident; he lost a bet and couldn't pay up). With no Mad Dok, and transport being a problem, the Mek was unable to have his hands reattached.

According to Uurgrin, just as his warband was thinking they did something wrong to piss off their gods Gork and Mork, they were instead "blessed wiv a way ter fix da big problem" when Cezzy-Po and Brudz crashed into their wall. Apparently Gork and Mork (according to Uurgrin) was testing his clan's resilience, and had been rewarded (eventually) after putting up and surviving these tests. And so, instead of skinning the gate crashers and roasting them over a fire, Uurgrin wanted to make them a deal.

"So, let me git dis shtraight," Cezzy said trying to summarize the last few hours of talk. "Yew'll let us live, an' yew'll let us fix our bike –"

"MY bike!" Brudz interrupted.

"- yeah whateva ya bloody volvo driva - if we fix yer cyboars, an' fix yer mek's 'ands?"

Uurgrin nodded. "Dat's right."

Jamz was growing restless; he didn't like long boring meetings with anyone, not even a Waagh Boss. "What 'bout me 'n' Oric?" he asked grumpily.

"Yew two c'n stay in dis camp 'til yer two sistahs 'ere 'ave finished dere jobs. Jus' don't go breakin' nothin', an' don't 'spect nothin' fer free." Uurgrin replied, and dismissed the Orks. "Now go, da lot of yer. Oh, an' yew go find Orlen, Dok. Dat's da mek wiv no 'ands."

Cezzy nodded. "Yes Boss. Where'z 'ee?"

"I dunno, jus' find 'im! 'Ee's got no 'ands, so 'ee can't be dat 'ard ta spot!" Uurgrin snapped.

Cezzy left it at that and walked out of the hut with the others; she didn't want to push the Waagh Boss's patience. She would just have to find Orlen with the help of the others.

"C'mon ev'ry one, we betta find Orlen." Cezzy said once they were outside.

"What? Whadoya mean 'we'?" Jamz snarled. "Dat's yaw job, I aint 'elpin'. I's gonna get some beer or somefin'." The mega armoured Nob walked off, following the smell of roast squig.

Cezzy was about to ask Oric to help but it was pointless; he was already running off down a dirt road.

"I'll 'elp! I'll 'elp!" Brudz said, jumping up and down beside her sister enthusiastically – her head was feeling much better.

"Yew waz gonna 'elp me find Orlen weva yer liked it or not," Cezzy replied. "An' stop bein' so idiodic. Yew'll make ev'ry one fink yer get a brain injaree or somefin'."

(Insert from author – there are now "too many spelling and grammatical errors" in my story, and now my computer refuses to display them! Another note, the sisters computer shows them just fine though.)

Brudz pulled her riding goggles down over her eyes. "I wants ter fix stuff, so da sooner we gets dat gits 'ands sewed back on, da betta."

Cezzy pointed in random direction. "Den let's go."

The settlement was much larger in size than it looked; Brudz and Cezzy had been scouring the area for an hour, and still no sign of Orlen. The Snakebite Orks hadn't been very helpful either.

Brudz and Cezzy were at what must have been some kind of pub, interrogating the occupants. The mek walked up to an Ork sitting on a stool, and tapped him on the shoulder. "Scuze me," she said dully, "'ave you see Orlen? Handless, prob'ly big, da last mek in yer warband or somefin' like dat."

The Ork looked over his shoulder; he looked about as intelligent as a failed IQ test.

After getting no reply, Brudz said, "Nevuh mind, keep drinkin'." And she trudged over to the next Ork and repeated the process.

Cezzy and Brudz had questioned everyone in the pub; even the bar girl was useless. She had merely asked them if they wanted beer, completely ignoring their question; and upon the sisters declining, the bar girl told them to go away (in less friendly terms).

On leaving the pub, the girls walked down the dark road. Not far away, there was a small fire burning with a small band of Orks sitting around it.

"Let's ask dem 'bout Orlen," Cezzy ordered rather than suggested.

The pair walked over and at the same time, asked, "'As any one seen Orlen da 'andless mek?"

None of the Orks replied. They were all too preoccupied with something, possibly beer, and were sniggering and chattering.

Brudz stepped closer and leant over to take a look at what they were doing. What she saw seemed rather strange; the Orks were putting snakes up to their arms, and letting them bite.

Cezzy looked as well. "Ah… iz it jus' me, or is dey shootin' up on snakes?"

"Yeah, priddy much. No wonder all de Orks are vague 'round 'ere, dey're ah bunch o' junkies!"

Even though the girls were standing within inches of the group, the Snakebite Orks seemingly didn't notice the pair and continued letting snakes bite them, snickering, and being oblivious.

"If we'z lucky, maybe Orlen died o' an ovuh dose or somefin'." Brudz shrugged.

"An' why iz dat a _good_ fing?" Cezzy asked. "Da Boss wants me ta fix 'is 'ands."

"Well, if 'ee's dead, we won't 'ave ta waste anymore time lookin' fer 'im. I bets we c'n fix dem cyboars wivout 'im, anyway." Brudz didn't seem to have any pity for the remaining Snakebite mek. She added, "'Ee mus'n't've been a very good mek ta risk loosin' 'is 'ands gamblin' anywayz… uh, iz it jus' me, or iz it kinda quiet all'u'va sudden?"

Cezzy pointed her thumb sideways; Brudz followed the direction with her gazed. The happy junky Orks were no longer chattery and cheerful; they were looking towards the girls.

"Dey's got very stoned eyes," Brudz observed nervously.

One of the Orks stood up; a small colourful snake fell to the ground and slithered away. His fists were wrapped in wads of cloth, and he looked much bigger now that he wasn't sitting down. He stood an intimidating one-and-a-half times of Cezzy and Brudz' height.

To the girls' surprise, the Ork simply turned and walked away into the darkness.

"Now ye've gawn an' done it!" One of the Snakebites accused. "Yer gawn an' upset big 'ole Orlen!"

"Dat was Orlen?" Cezzy sounded astounded.

Another of the Snakebites stood up and walked over to where the girls stood. He was slightly taller than the girls, and more muscular. "Yew two are de ones dat 'ave been shootin' up if yer couldn't see dat waz Orlen." He spat on the ground and looked at Brudz crossly. "An' yew, yer even stupider! Moufin' off like dat, right in front o' Orlen! Yew betta say sorry to 'im or me 'n' da boyz'll snap ya inta uh 'undred pieces! Git yer facts right if yer gonna dis someone at least, ya brainless runt!"

A strange feeling stung Brudz in the gut. She had rarely experienced this feeling; it was two thirds fear, one third guilt. "Wha' evuh butt breff." Brudz said and walked past the angry Ork.

Cezzy joined her sister. The two walked away from the small congregation to go talk to Orlen, who was now a shadowy figure in the distance. Brudz broke into a zig-zagging run when she heard a noise, thinking it was the Orks loading their shootas.

"Wait fer me!" Cezzy yelled out, chasing after her sister.

Orlen looked over his shoulder when he heard the patter of feet coming towards him. Seeing the girls running down the street after him, he rolled his eyes and walked faster.

"Oi! Orlen, slow down!" Brudz called as she got closer. "Don't force me to cut yer feet off, too!"

The mek girl nearly fell head over heel when her sister smacked her over the back of the head. "Don't be a shmart mouf!" She hissed. "Yew won't make a big Ork like 'im stop wiv inshalts like dat!"

Orlen turned down an alley between two buildings. The girls followed, deciding to hang back from the mek incase he decided to stomp them to death or something painful like that.

"Orlen," Cezzy spoke, "My sistah iz jus' a 'arf brained twit, ignore 'er. Lookz, we wanna 'elp ya, yer Boss asked uz ta fix yer 'ands, so yer c'n fix shtuff 'gain."

Orlen didn't show any signs of responding; he simply kept walking down the alley. The girls followed trying to reason with the Ork, but it was to no avail. He just kept walking. They trailed him for ten minutes until, quite suddenly, Orlen stopped. He was standing in front of a half-burnt building, with it's metal doors hanging from their hinges pathetically.

Brudz stepped closer and sniffed the air "I smells engine oil… an' piggies."

Orlen stared at the building; he had a grim look on his face. "Dis 'ere mek shop shoulda bin oparashunel. I shud be fixin' it up. I shud be makin' new wheels fer da cyboars. Dem Goffs are gunna pay fer what dey's did…"

The sisters were stunned silent; all this time, Orlen wasn't walking away, he was taking them to the mek shop. It would have been less rude if he actually said so, but that's an Ork for you.

"Wait, did yew say da Goffs 'ad somefin' ter do wiv dis mess?" Brudz asked astonished. "Yer Boss said dat de uva meks an' yer dok all died in some exploshen involvin' da ship."

Orlen looked at the girls. "Do yer fink da Boss iz shtupid 'nough ter tell members of anuva clan what our problems are? Dey died alright, but not coz our ship's engine exsploded."

"Oh…" Cezzy nodded intelligently. "Are yew sayin' da Goffs croaked'em?"

Orlen looked a the girls hesitantly; Cezzy was sure he was considering telling them something that his Boss hadn't been completely honest about. "I can't tell yer, yew aint wun ov us Snakebites."


	8. Confrontation

Chapta Seven: Confrontation

**Chapta Seven: Confrontation**

Signs of dawn had appeared on the horizon by the time Cezzy and Brudz had convinced Orlen to fill them in on what his Boss failed to mention. The three sat inside the remains of the old mek shop, out of the cold.

"If yew lot's got troubles, den dat makes 'em our troubles, too." Cezzy explained. "At least, while's we're stuck 'ere. An' we aint gonna use yer bad situashen ter make it even worse. We iz a very long way 'way from our waagh, 'n' if it makes yer feel better, we dun even know 'oo it iz we's sposed ta be fightin'."

Orlen looked sceptical; he still hadn't quite made up his mind if he wanted to open his mouth.

Tired and hungry, Brudz wanted to get the information from the reluctant Ork and go to sleep. "Look, Orlen, wha' we mean iz if yer clan's in any trouble, den so are we. If some one wants ter stab yer, den dey'll wanna stab uz, too. If dey wants ter kill yer, dey'll wanna kill us too. Why? Coz we'z stuck 'ere."

"Yeh mean yer da Boss's slaves." Orlen corrected.

"We aint no ones slaves!" Cezzy growled.

Orlen snorted. "You'd be dead, if 'ee didn't need yer 'elp. Dat makes yer slaves."

"Jus' tell us da troof 'bout 'ow da meks 'n' yer dok got deaded!" Snapped Brudz.

Orlen sighed heavily. "Okay… but I wants a sleep first."

Only Cezzy objected; knowing that they'd find out the story later was enough for Brudz - she fell asleep on the half-burned bench where she sat. Orlen stood up and began to walk off, ignoring Cezzy's grumbles.

"Oi, wait, where yer goin'? C'n ya at leasht tell us 'fore yer go ter sleep?" Cezzy bugged the mek, pulling at piece of animal fur on his back.

Orlen growled in annoyance, "I'm goin' to da squigdrops to take a dump, do yer mind?"

Disgusted and horrified, the Dok stopped tugging at Orlen's animal pelt. "Dat waz too much infamashun, ya coulda jus' said yer needed a few moments alone yer filfy Nob! Yew meks must 'ave it in yer genes - Brudz's got da same mannerisms. Bleh!"

With a shrug Orlen headed for the toilet.

As the sun rose higher and higher, the chill in the air began to relieve. The only thing that spoilt such a fine morning included three things: first, Orks don' really give a squig's butt about nice weather. Secondly, it wasn't just going to get warm, it was going to get hot - as deserts usually do in the day - and everybody knew it. And finally, a beer or fifty the night before.

Oric woke up with a throbbing head ache and blurry vision; he was lying on the ground in a small alley beside a shabby hut. He reached out for partially full beer bottle - only to have a mega claw scoop it up.

A loud burp erupted from Jamz' mouth after he ate the beer (bottle and all). He sat on the ground near Oric looking rather seedy. "We're outta teef." he said. They had spent the last of their super-secret stash of teeth on grog and pie.

"Why doesh ev'ry good night ouwt end up loik diss?" Oric complained as he unsteadily sat up.

"It's called a 'ang'ovuh, ya wimp." Jamz replied. He then leaned over sideways and vomited.

Oric screwed his nose up at the vile smell. "Look 'oo's talkin', I ain't da one dat's…" Oric's mouth twitched, before he too leaned over and delivered his guts.

"What waz yer sayin, Oric?" Jamz said smugly.

"Shud up! I's jus' makin' room fer more pie."

Jamz reminded Oric about their little problem. "We aint got no more teef, rememba?"

Oric sighed. No teeth meant no pie. "Guess I'll jus' sleep den." He leant up against the side of the hut and closed his eyes; it didn't take Orks long to get over their ailments.

Jamz mumbled in agreement and didn't waste time before he was rumbling snores.

"Oi'! Oi'! Wake up!"

Jamz woke up with a start; his head was feeling much better, but he didn't like being disturbed from his slumber. The sun was high in the sky, well into the day. Jamz looked grumpily at Brudz and Cezzy-Po who stood next to him, pushing him to wake him up.

"You 'ad betta 'ave a guf reas'n fer wakin' me up!" He growled.

"Stop yer bitchin', it waz yaw choice at drink booz all night." Brudz replied, looking down at the dried puddle of puke with a sneer. "Coulda give us a few teef, yew greedy gutses."

Pushing Brudz aside, Cezzy spoke with a mix of excitement and urgency. "Orlen jus' told us da real reason dat Waagh Boss wants us, and yew two, 'ere! 'Ee said dat da Goffs-"

"Slow down!" Jamz interrupted. "'Oo's dis Orlen fella?"

"-'Ee's da last ov dere meks, but 'ee 'as no 'ands. Now listen up - da Goffs are responsible fer da deff of da Dok, da meks, an' Orlen's missin' 'ands. AND fer killin' some of dere cyboars, an' fer trashin' da mek shop."

Oric stood up and stretched. "So? 'oo gives a toss what 'appened to dis clan - it ain't ours. Da sooner we git outta 'ere, da betta."

"Can't yew see what dis means fer us all - an' fer yewz?" Brudz burst out with new life as she explained the importance of the news. "Da Boss is jus' letting' yew two stay 'ere so 'ee's got two huge killy Nobs to fight if dis place gits attacked again; 'ave yer noticed dat dere aint a single uver mega-armoured nob in sight? Closest fing yew'll find ter teknologee in dis clan iz dem cyboars - which are almost non existent, fanks to da Goffs. Yew cud be getting' teef outta dis, but da Boss waz bein' all sneaky 'bout da situashen. Stingy bastard!"

Jamz didn't take the news too well. He jumped to his metal feet, roaring, "NOBODY GITS ANYFIN' FER FREE FROM JAAAAAMZ! I WANTS TEEF!"

Uurgrin sat on his bone throne eating roast squig - he'd been out for his morning exercise already: beating up Orks who were too drunk to back down from a fight with their Boss, or dumb enough to think they'd actually win. After that, he spent some time at the pub; he enjoyed gambling, drinking, and the cranky bar maid; the beer always tasted better to Uurgrin when she served it. He probably wouldn't like her as much if he knew she pissed in his beer.

Now Uurgrin was enjoying his afternoon snack in his hut. His bodyguards also enjoyed a squig meat meal, seated at tables around the hut. Or at least they were, until Jams hacked down the wooden door with his cleaver and barged in uninvited.

"I WANT MY ZOGGIN' TEEEEEF!"

The body guards dropped their meat and grabbed their weapons. Uurgrin looked up from his meal none too happily, a leg of squig half way to his mouth. "Yew look like yer got a gob full o' teef ter me, Nob."

Jamz snarled; his yellow teeth visible. "Yer jus' usin' me an' Oric. If I knew'd yer were jus' usin' us fer protecshen, I'd'v made yer pay fer me services - I ain't free ya know. At least not to dis backwards tribe. So, pay me teef now, or I'll open yer up wiv me cleava!"

There was complete silence for several seconds. You never threaten a Waaghboss unless you're either very stupid, very angry and stupid, drunk, or strong enough to possibly have a chance of beating him (which is unlikely - after all, Boss' are the Boss for a very good reason!).

Uurgrin put his meat aside and stood up. His neutral expression had disappeared - he looked fiercely at his challenger. Uurgrin's body guards flanked their Boss; it was one thing to be challenged by a member of their own warband, but for a stranger to challenge Uurgrin made all the Snakebites present tense.

"Yew idiot!" Brudz squeezed through the door and stood beside Jamz. "Dere's more important fings ter be worryin' 'bout den challenging dere Boss!"

Jamz glared down at Brudz, raising his mega claw to swing in her direction. "Yaw da one dat told me 'bout da teef!" He growled.

Brudz quickly backed out of reach. Cezzy-Po entered the hut on Jamz' other side, explaining to her brother the need to stay in one piece temporarily. "Shaw, git yer teef, butjus' fink what'll 'appen if da Goffs git 'ere an' two ov da biggest, meanest, killy Orks iz 'arf dead, den yew may as well invite dem goons into dis settlement an' roll over 'n' die coz da Goffs aint a bunch ov push overs."

Cezzy-Po counted on the fact that she was the only Dok available in the settlement to keep her alive; nobody tells a bigger Ork what to do - especially ones that's a Boss and one that wears mega armour - and expects to live a long life.

The Waaghboss' surprise helped to reduce his want to flatten the mouthy Dok. "Who told yer 'bout da Goffs? An' how much do yer know?"

The Dok pushed the bandanna up and put her hands behind her back. "Why don't yer all take a seat while I explain?" After receiving a glowering look from Jamz she added, "an' we c'n work out da fing wiv Jamz."

One tedious life threatening hour later, the Waaghboss made the agreement that Jamz and Oric could plunder whatever loot they wanted - if the Goffs attacked while they were still there. Uurgrin refused to pay teeth to someone who might not end up doing anything except drink beer all day.

Uurgrin wasn't pleased that Orlen had blabbed. And Orlen wasn't happy that Brudz and Cezzy-Po blabbed to Jamz. Currently, the two girls were trying to pacify the handless mek.

"Yew said yew wouldn't exploit da clan!" He roared. The three Orks were at the half-destroyed mek shop; Orlen's voice echoed loudly. "Lien' pieces of crap!"

"Gorkers Orlen, shut ya gab!" Brudz yelled from a safe distance. "We still gonna stay 'n' 'elp, but we felt it necessary ta tell Jamz 'n' Oric dat dey waz bein' used. So see, we didn't exploit yew lot!"

"If I 'ad 'ands, I'd strangle yew 'n' dat Dok." Orlen snarled.

Cezzy poked her head above the bench she was hiding behind. "Well, good fing yer aint got no 'ands. An'yer won't 'ave, if yer keep talkin' like dat 'bout me!"

A faint chinking and dinging sound caught Brudz' attention. "What's dat noise?" She asked aloud, and ran over to the door and peeked out. "What da 'eck? Why's dat Ork wearin' all dose jingly fingies?"

Orlen and Cezzy knew exactly why that Ork was wearing jingly things. They both tried to warn Brudz, "Don't go out dere - " but it was too late. The inquisitive mek had already slipped out of the door.

A strange looking Ork was hurrying past the mek shop with a small band of Orks following close behind. He was a foot taller than Brudz and wore leather pants, and a fur-lined snake skin belt which had cow bells hanging from it. The Ork was bare from his belt up except for multiple silver hoop earrings on his ears, and snake-skin wrist bands. His bare skin was covered in swirling patterns which were far more extreme than any Brudz had seen on even Uurgrin, and he carried a metal staff decorated at one end.

Brudz dashed out and walked beside the strange Ork, demanding answers. "Why's yew dressed like dat? An' why's dem Orks followin' yew?"

"Go away!" The strange Ork snapped and pushed Brudz away. "I got somefin' important to tell da Boss."

Brudz wasn't happy with the greeting she had received. "Fink yer c'n jus' shove me, do ya, creep?" She said, baring her teeth angrily.

The gang following the strange Ork caught up with the pair and grabbed Brudz. "Don't go gettin' rowdy 'round Ongrat!" They growled and threw her aside like a ragdoll.

Brudz found it quite strange that she didn't just get beat up. If any other Orks had ganged up her like that, she would have been left with a black eye, several stab wounds and maybe some bullet holes for sure. Brudz' curiosity demanded that she get to the bottom of this. She stood up, and was ready to run over to the fast-paced mob when someone grabbed her by her squig-hair braid.

"Whadoya fink yer doin'?" Cezzy yelled at her younger sister; Orlen stood behind her. "Ya freakin' idiot! 'Ave yew any idea what dat Ork is?"

"An' Ork's an Ork." Brudz replied. She turned around and bit her sister's hand to make her let go.

"Aaah!" Cezzy screamed. "Yew'll regret dat!"

Orlen stepped between the two sisters. "If yer know what's good for ya, don't fight when Ongrat's nearby." Suddenly, pain shot up Orlen's legs – the sisters kicked him in the shins and the pair started to fight, kicking and scratching each other. "Gaaah! Dat 'urt! I'll kill yer when Ongrat's gawn!"

A few punches and kicks into the fight, Brudz pulled out her slugga (her kustom weapon had been a casualty in the bike accident) and started shooting at Cezzy-Po. The Dok ran, stuffing her hands into her many pockets trying to locate her own gun to shoot back with. Although the Dok knew the dangers that the bell-laden Ork possessed, she took her chances and ran into the group of Orks that followed Ongrat. They were a perfect meat-shield.

Without any regard for the other Orks, the young angry Mek let loose with her shoota. The bullets pinged off metal bits of armour, and some hit flesh – announced by a roar from the receiver.

Ongrat broke into a run; he sniffed back into his nose what looked like a glowing booger. The Orks following Ongrat were his Minders; an odd assortment of Orks who were chosen to guard the bell-laden Ork at all times. Not all of them were right in the head.

Angry, the Minders turned around and pulled their weapons out. Cezzy shuffled through the group until she was free and ran hell-for-leather from the Minders.

"Dat's betta," Brudz spoke to the mob of Minders. "I waz begginin' ta fink yer didn't like ter fight."

It took a moment for Brudz to realise that wasn't perhaps such a good thing. She stuffed her gun back into her back pocket and looked about nervously. She nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw Orlen was standing behind her looking none too pleased.

"We got work ta do," Orlen growled. He looked up to the Minders who were walking towards Brudz. "Dis wun'z under da Boss's charge, an' 'ee needz 'er alive… for now. Yew lot betta go find Ongrat, 'Ee's run off."

The Minders looked around confused; Ongrat really had run off. Realising this, they fled to find the Ork under their supervision.

Orlen called out, "Oi, boyz! Go 'n' fetch dat Dok fer me, an' bring 'er to da pens."

Three Orks boyz jumped out from behind a scrap pile near the mek shop, and ran down the road, hailing Orlen. "Be right back wiv 'er, Orlen!"

"Does dey always hide behind stuff?" Brudz asked.

Orlen pointed past the Mek shop with his one of his stumps. "Dat way, yer zog-rot. An' no, dey only does dat when dey is spyin'. Dey ain't ever far away." He stomped off, with Brudz following at a safe distance from the agitated Ork.

The animal pens were just behind the mek shop; boars and a variety of squigs were kept there. Further back in a separate set of huts the snakes were caged. The snake huts were unharmed, but the boar and squig pens had seen better days; they had been targeted by the Goffs in the last raid. A group of Gretchin and Snotlings were tending to the animals, feeding them and repairing the pens. Orlen walked over to a row of iron cages.

"Dis 'ere iz da last of our boars." He said, looking at the sickly beasts. "Only about twenty ov 'em left – an' dey are dyin' fast."

Brudz walked up and down the cages, examining the boars. Most had their back legs replaced with a single wheel and cybernetic enhancements; but there were still a few pens which contained untouched boars. All of the boars, cybork or not, moped around with an unhealthy look. They didn't even have the energy to grunt or squeal.

"Dat looks bad," Brudz said concerned. She knew Uurgrin was worried, but she hadn't realised just how bad the boars were until now.

"Da dok's right 'ere, Orlen!" one of the boys called out close by. Several footsteps could be heard before four Orks walked around the corner where Orlen and Brudz stood.

Cezzy-Po didn't look too impressed. She stamped forward and grabbed her sister by the collar of her singlet. "Yew ever shoot at me like dat again, an' I swears I'll rip dat shquig 'air right from yer scalp! An' don't _ever_ fight around a Weirdboy, yew 'ear me?" She let go of her sister, giving her one last warning snarl. "Yew ain't ever been ta waagh before, so yew listen to me when I tells yer somefin! Yew'll live a lot longer!"

Having been embarrassed in front the Snakebite Orks the young mek decided it was best to reserve questions for later; she felt it would only make her seem even more stupid. Instead, she just grunted in reply resisting the temptation to pull out her shoota and do exactly what her elder sister advised her not to do.

"Right den," Cezzy said standing a little taller, "Let's find out why dese boars are all croakin' it."

Little more than an hour later the girls and Orlen had set up a mini work station in an empty pen. Brudz was busy making wheels to be fitted to the boars under the careful watch of Orlen ("dey 'as ta be done MY way, which iz da SNAKEBITE way!" and grumbling and growling etc.). Cezzy was examining a knocked-out boar and testing blood samples. An unexpected visitor came to check the Orks' progress.

"How long's dis gonna take ta git me boars fixed?" Uurgrin bellowed, sticking his large head through the entrance of the work station startling the Orks inside.

"We're workin' as fast as we can, Boss." Orlen replied. "We're getting' da last of da boars fitted wiv wheels, an' da dok's tryin' ter find a cure for 'em."

Uurgrin looked from the wheels to the unconscious boar. "Dat didn't answer my question, Orlen. 'Ow long's it gonna take!" he snapped angrily.

"About a day ter git da boars on wheels; I dunno about da cure, Boss." Orlen spoke, careful not to sound rude.

"I fink I know what's maken' 'em sick," Cezzy spoke up before Uurgrin could shout again, sniffing a blood sample. "It's a common illness on dis planet. If dese boars ain't from 'ere, den dey obviously gonna git much more affected by da disease."

The news didn't seem to cheer Uurgrin up any. "Can dey be cured soon?"

"Maybe," Cezzy replied. "It depends 'ow long it'll take me ter git da right fungus. I noticed dere wasn't much growin' round 'ere."

"Yew tell me what yer need ta git dese 'ogs fixed, an' I'll make sure dat yer get it." Uurgrin said resolutely. "Coz we only 'ave fwree days before da Goffs iz gonna be on our door step."


	9. Da Goffs Arrive

Chapta Eight: Da Goffs Arrive

Chapta Eight: Da Goffs Arrive

Jamz and Oric were pleased for a change; the news of the Goffs, delivered by the tribe's Weirdboy Ongrat, had been delightful. Oric was helping to prepare for waagh by doing what he was good at: sharpening stabby things. Jamz was able to lift heavy things the other Orks couldn't and aided in reinforcing the walls.

The Snakebites had set up a pedal-operated sharpening stone for Oric to use in one of the huts. He was assigned four Gretchin who kept the flow of blunt weapons up to Oric, and delivered the sharpened ones to their owners. He was also allowed to have a free beer every half an hour.

"Take dis," Oric said passing an axe to one of the Gretchin. "It's all good ter chop stuff again." The Gretchin obediently took the axe, which was almost bigger than itself, out to a waiting Ork. "Bring me back a beer!" Oric yelled after it.

As the day crept to night Oric was still sharpening things and ordering his beer every half an hour; the wheel still spun as fast as it ever had all day and was waring down. It wasn't until Jamz walked in that Oric stopped pedalling for the first time in ten hours.

"Uurgrin wants ter see us in 'is hut." Jamz announced, entering the hut. He took his cleaver off his back and put it down near the wheel. "An' sharpen dat for me when yew git back in 'ere."

"Yeah, yeah, whateva." Oric said standing up and rubbing his sore butt. "I fergot I even 'ad dis – it went numb a few hours ago."

Jamz raised his upper lip in a half-amused grin. "C'mon, let's go."

The two Nobs walked to Uurgrin's hut. The Waagboss's shelter was busier than usual, with many other Nobs, boyz and Gretchin entering and exiting in a hurry as they delivered news of the waagh preparation and ran off to bark out orders from Uurgrin.

When Oric and Jamz entered the hut, Uurgrin looked up. The Boss was standing at a table which had a map on it with some of his larger Nobs. "Yew two, git over here." Uurgrin ordered.

Jamz obliged, shoving aside two Nobs to make room for himself and Oric at the table. "Whadoya want?" He asked, looking down at the map curiously. "I 'ate maps!"

Uurgrin ignored Jamz' rude greeting and turned his attention to Oric who was less likely to complain. "Dat fing yew two rode 'ere on, what's it like?"

"What, dat wartrakk?" Oric replied. "It's priddy good; sturdy, able ter run right frew just about anyfin'. Got a nice big shoota attached, an' a nice big engine. Has a wide turn, but dat aint much ov a problem."

Uurgrin nodded thoughtfully. "Good, good. We'll 'ave one of yew two drivin' it when da Goffs git 'ere, an' I'll be on da backseat so I can crack some 'eads as yew drive through da Goffs. We gotta 'ave two forces: one in da settlement, an' one out. Dat fing can be out of da settlement, ta give da Goff Nobs a nice welcome. We'll lead da cyboars inta battle wiv dat wartrakk." Uurgrin grinned maliciously; the Waaghboss enjoyed the though of ploughing through the Goff Nobs with something they wouldn't be expecting, and clouting them over the head with his big killy axe.

"I'll drive it," Oric agreed. "Nobody drives 'er 'cept me."

"An' yew," Uurgrin said pointing to Jamz, "yew c'n lead da boyz alongside ov me finest Nobs, an' hack at da Goffs 'oo get past da cyboars. Dey iz gonna outnumber us two ter one, but we'll beat 'em; we're better den dem. We're tuffa, an' savage. An' dey finks we aint got no useful Meks or a Dok."

Jamz and Oric were looking forward to the fight with the Goffs – it had been while since they had last had been in a fight of this scale. Sure, they'd been in a number of pub brawls, or gang bashings, but that was nothing to what this was going to be. They were glad to hear that there would be plenty of Goffs to go around…

Cezzy had been given all the fungus she needed; Uurgrin had ordered a party of boyz to retrieve as much as they could scavenge. She used the fungus to make a "special pig jooce" which she injected into the boars; now all they could do was wait for them to get better.

She was in the operating room that had once been used by the Snakebite's Dok (until he was blown to smithereens by the Goffs). Cezzy had begun augmenting the boars which had not been converted to cyboars yet. The Dok began the procedure by drawing lines onto the boars, around their hind legs and bottom. Then, she brought out a whizzy cutter device and sliced along the lines. After pulling off the no-longer-needed hind legs, the Dok cut some more flesh and took out the boar's hips. Next, she replaced the hips with some metal thing Brudz had made, and attached the wheel to that. After adding a few more mechanical bits and pieces (and a few extra organs), she stapled closed any cuts, riveted the plating onto the boar's butt and stomach (as requested by Uurgrin), and gave the beast a shot of one of her secret concoctions to help it along. After only one operation, the Dok was smeared with blood and bits of meat.

The doors to the theatre opened and Cezzy pushed out a trolley with her first completed cyboar laying unconscious on it. She took it out to the pens which were not faraway.

"Got yer boar!" The Dok called out as she approached the pens where Orlen and Brudz were putting together the last few cyboar wheels and gadgets.

Orlen left Brudz to work on as he went to help Cezzy put the newest cyboar into a pen. The cyboars were large animals, which stood almost as tall as the sisters and weighed a good ton or two. Cezzy and Orlen lifted the cyboar between them (Orlen wrapped his arms around the cyboar's head) and placed it in a pen by itself to recover.

"If any ov da boars look like dey're gettin' worse, come an' get me," Cezzy instructed as she wiped her face clean with her lab coat. "Now den, let's load da next boar onta da trolley."

Orlen tried not to imagine what happened in the operation room to the boar when he saw the extent of blood and chunks of meat on Cezzy. "Try not ter kill dem boars, or da Boss won't be happy." He warned her.

They loaded the next boar, and the Dok headed back to her operation room to start the process all over again, smiling like a child at a candy store. "I won't kill 'em… I'll make 'em da best cyboars yew lot's ever seen!"

By the next day, the excitement of the coming battle had well and truly taken a hold of the Snakebites and the four Evil Sunz. The settlement was like a hive of bees; Uurgrin was throwing orders left right and centre with more urgency as each hour passed.

Jamz and Oric had kept working until the wall and all the stabby things were sharpened, finally catching some sleep in the early hours of the morning. Cezzy was still operating - keeping herself going with a shot or two from her own special concoctions. Brudz and Orlen had finished building the last of the cybernetics for the boars; Orlen was off talking to the Boss about preparations, and Brudz was giving the wartrakk a little fine tunning (well, she was supposed to be, but she decided her bike needed more attention that the wartrakk).

The Dok came out of the operating room for the last time, and delivered the cyboar back to the pens. She unloaded it with the help of a Nob, and headed over to the Mek shop. She walked through a hole in the wall and followed the banging, clanging and the clicking of ratchets to the opposite end of the Mek shop where Brudz was up to her elbows in an engine.

"Can yer get me some red paint?" Brudz asked her sister without looking up. "Me bike turned black in dat last accident."

"Good day to yew too," Cezzy-Po replied sarcastically. "I jus' finished da last operashun, I aint running errands fer yew – I wants ter sit down fer a liddle bit." She promptly sat down on the nearest crate and folded her arms defiantly.

Brudz was too deep into her work to argue; she merely grunted with annoyance and continued fixing her bike in silence.

Cezzy sat licking the blood from her fingers and thought about how she could improve Squiggy. Her experimental pet squig (which was currently in the custody of the Waaghboss) had been of great interest to Uurgrin, and was the reason he put the lives of his cyboars in the outsider's hands. She may have been affiliated with the Evil Sunz, but that didn't stop her from grabbing any chance she had to get her fingers into anyone - or anything's – guts. Blood was blood, and innards were innards - that was as philosophical as it got with Cezzy-Po.

An hour or so later Orlen returned to the Mek shop. Seeing Cezzy-Po idle, he asked, "Can yew fix me up some new 'ands? I need some."

Cezzy hopped down off the crate. "Yew got some 'ands I c'n sew on?" Orlen looked at her puzzled. Cezzy decided to explain the situation more clearly. "I aint got a spare pair ov 'ands, so unless yer got some lyin' around, den I can't stich on what I aint got."

"But da Boss said part ov da agreement was dat yew fixed me up!" Orlen growled. Arguing was his way of stopping himself from getting upset.

A spanner flew past the large Mek's head, colliding with the wall and making a racket. "Stop getting' yer furs in a knot, Orlen." Brudz spoke impatiently. "I gots somefin' figured out dat yew c'n use for da big brawl."

"Oh, well dat's good. Lemme know when yer finish makin' it." He replied without yelling. Orlen quickly switched back to cranky mode. "An' don't frow spanners at me 'ead!"  
The Dok wasn't a very big appreciator of yelling, unless it was that of someone in excruciating pain or fear. She narrowed her eyes at the handless Mek, telling him off. "Ain't yew got somefin' better to do Orlen, den come in 'ere wiv no 'ands an' get all grumpy?"

"Oh yeah! Dat reminds me." Orlen suddenly remembered why he was at the Mek Shop in the first place. "Da Boss told me ter tell yew two dat dere's gonna be a meetin' durin' lunch at da Boss' 'ut. Says yer bofe ter be dere."

Brudz pulled her head out of the engine and looked warily left and right. She lowered her voice to just over a whisper. "Iz dat weird Ork gonna be dere?" She asked.

Cezzy wrinkled her nose into a mock sneer. "Why, yew scared ov 'im?" She teased.

"No!" Brudz shouted. "Course I ain't… I jus' fink 'ee's weird. Very weird. I mean, 'ee wears bells – 'ee's a crack 'ead!"

"Idiot," Cezzy sighed. "Don't yew know anyfin'? 'Ee wears bells 'coz 'ee's a Weirdboy!"  
"Don't yew call me an idiot, I does all kinda smart fings, like makin' big, loud, noisy bikes!"

Unwilling to risk being in the middle of a possible fight between the girls again, Orlen headed for the door. "C'mon, da Boss'll throttle yer if yew's late." He walked out, leaving the sisters to themselves.

Half an hour later, Uurgrin walked into the hut. The hut was full of Nobs and other important Orks. Cezzy spotted Jamz and Oric sitting on the opposite side of the hut amongst the biggest of the Nobs. Brudz waved, but the pair didn't see her (or perhaps they just pretended not to see her – the truth remains unknown). She heard a snicker from behind. Looking around, she saw the familiar faces from the day before, laughing at her.

"Snot-faced dim-wits," Brudz hissed back. She saw the bell-totting Ork giving her a contemptuous look, teeth bared slightly. "I'll stab yer a good one, ya weirdo!" She snarled to him, raising her middle finger.

"No yer won't," Orlen flicked Brudz in the side of the head, telling her off. "Shut up 'n' don't be a prat. Uurgrin's about ta talk."

Talk was an almighty understatement. Uurgrin raised his voice so loud, the Mek swore her Mumzy would have heard him inTam'urt. "Tomorrow's da time, boyz," he began, "an' I expects yer all ter fight wiv all da savagery we've all grown up wiv. No Snakebite tribe's gonna be beaten by dem ugly Goffs. WE'LL KILL 'EM ALL!"

All the Snakebites roared with agreement, and Uurgrin continued. "Dem Goffs fink dis iz our last waagh, but dey iz wrong. Dey fink dey whittled us down ter nuffin', but dey is very wrong. Gork and Mork sent us jus' what we needed ter win dis fight, an' I intend ter make sure dat da God's aren't disappointed by da Snakebites. We eiver win, or we die. Dere aint no losin' fer us!"

Everyone responded even louder than before; Cezzy and Brudz were the only ones not joining in the chorus – Cezzy was busy sleeping, and Brudz was sure she'd just end up screaming curse words at Ongrat the Weirdboy and his Minders if she opened her gob.

"Now den," Uurgrin spoke in a slightly quieter tone which seemed impossible two minutes ago, "Let's go over da plans."

Over the next half an hour Uurgrin told his Nobs how they were to fight the Goffs. The Cyboars – led by the wartrakk with Oric and Uurgrin on board – would charge the Goffs before they reached the settlement. Anyone with a shoota would follow up led by Jamz, Ongrat and a few Nobs, to kill any Goff that made it past the Cyboars. Everyone else would be just inside the walls, where they would await any Goffs that made it to the settlement – the Goffs would undoubtedly try to flatten every building in sight if they did. If the enemy penetrated the settlement (Uurgrin didn't like to admit it but the Goffs probably would – the Goffs had multitudes of stormboyz with jet packs), then all the Snakebites would slaughter their way back to their base to squash any Goffs left standing. Uurgrin explicitly ordered that the Meks and the Dok were to remain inside the walls, well away from the first clash. This of course offended Orlen, but his ego was quickly inflated again when Uurgrin told him that he needed Orks who could fix things after the battle was won.

There was a quick recess while the Orks were brought lunch. Everyone ate quickly, talking excitedly and eager to get on with the meeting. As soon as Uurgrin ate the last of his squig pie, and drank the last drop of his beer, he continued the meeting. The Waaghboss went on about why Snakebites are better than Goffs, and that any Ork who can't handle a snake's venom shouldn't be called an Ork anyway, and how Brudz was going to make the ultimate killy device to prove once and for all that Goffs will never be as tough as the Snakebites.

"Wait a minute!" Brudz spoke for the first time since insulting Ongrat and his Minders. "I aint 'eard nuffin' about dis ultimate killy device. Dat was never mentioned in da deal!"

Uurgrin shot Orlen an annoyed glance. Orlen quickly explained, "Oh, er, I fergot ter mention it to 'er. Musta slipped me mind."

The Boss looked about ready to kill something. "Well, now she knows." He glared at Brudz demanding some input. "So? Any ideas? We aint got much time. Fink of somefin' NOW!"

Brudz looked to her sister for help, but the Dok shrugged. A snake slithered over her sister's shoulder, causing Cezzy to chuck a fit. "Blasted snakes! Dey's ev'ry where in dis place!"

"Well?" Uurgrin grumbled, impatient for an answer.

The young Mek fiddled with her singlet nervously; everyone was staring at her expectantly. "Uh…" She saw her sister fling the snake across the hut; an idea popped into her head. "Snakes!" She yelled.

Snakes were part of the Snakebite's every day lives; Uurgrin didn't look phased by Brudz' sudden compulsion to yell out about legless reptiles with pointy teeth. "Yeah, what about 'em?" However, his temper soon changed when Brudz explained her thoughts.

"If yer want an ultimate killy device, it means yer gonna need somefin' yew 'ave lots ov. An' 'scuze me fer sayin' so, but yew ain't got much in da way ov teknology, Boss. But yew _do _'ave lotsa snakes, see?" Brudz tried to talk as much as she could while she formulated a snakey weapon in her mind. Uurgrin and a few of the Nobs nodded; they liked where this was going. They told Brudz to continue. "Well… er… den why not use yer snakes ter fight da Goffs? Set up some pits, dat da Goffs c'n fall into, full ov big nasty snakies! It may not be a device as such, but it'll sure 'as 'ell make 'em wish dat dey never came to dis settlement lookin' fer a fight."

The Snakebites – Uurgrin included – agreed that the plan was a fit one. Suddenly Jamz seemed to notice Brudz (or just decided to cash in on her fifteen minutes of fame), yelling out, "Dat's my spore sister! She's a smart Mek. An' she only listen's ter me, Oric, an' Uurgrin! WAAAGH!"

A little over excited by the attention, Brudz stood up, turned around, and punched Ongrat square in the gob. "Dat's fer earlier!"

The room suddenly went dead silent. Brudz realised that perhaps she was a little over zealous with her actions, although she was unsure why anyone would care about Ongrat getting a fist to the face. "Ah… WAAAAGH! SNAKES!" She roared as loud as she could.

The Orks all forgot about the incident and began yelling out energetically, "WAAAGH! SNAKES!"

"What's up?" Brudz sniggered at Ongrat, "Yew look like yer need ta pee, heh heh heh!"

Cezzy and Orlen looked around to see Ongrat holding his head with his hands and crossing his legs in a semi-crouch. A glowing substance began to dribble from is nose and the corners of his eyes.

"Oh no!" Orlen realised the situation was very bad indeed. It was never a good thing for Weirdboys to be anywhere near rowdy Orks unless they were in the midst of a battle. "Yew lot," Orlen snapped at the Minders who were busy picking each others noses, "Get Ongrat out of here!"

Cezzy threw a beer bottle at Uurgrin to get the Boss's attention. When Uurgrin looked around for the culprit, Cezzy was pointing madly at Ongrat and his Minders. Uurgrin was quick to silence the Orks. "SHUT YER GABS DIS INSTANT!" he bellowed.

The Orks all fell silent and Ongrat and his Minders barged their way to the doors.

Cezzy and Orlen glared at Brudz. "What?" She said confused as to why she was suddenly enemy number one.

A blast accompanied by bright light lit up the hut, coming in through the windows, doors, and the holes in the walls. Everything was calm a few seconds later.

"Dat sounded like… a giant fart." Brudz observed.

"Dis meetin's over," Uurgrin announced. "We've got holes ter dig." The Boss gestured for Brudz to come to him – not a very good sign at all.

Fearful of what might happen if she chose to ignore the angry-looking Boss, Brudz forced her legs to carry her over to Uurgrin. Once the hut was all but empty, Uurgrin yelled at her for a good ten minutes about many things, including something about how precious squig meat was. She had the feeling Uurgrin forgot what he was meant to be yelling at her for, and so choose to yell about whatever came to his ugly head. Unfortunately, Oric had hung around to witness the scolding and soon reminded the Boss why Brudz was being yelled at.

As punishment for "sheer stupidity 'n' bein' an all-round git" Brudz was handed a shovel and ordered by Uurgrin to dig with a group of Gretchin. She also had a nice big lump on her head beneath her leather cap where Cezzy smacked her with a chunk of metal for punching Ongrat, and Jamz had suddenly denied that he was related to her. What a lovely brother.

"Gits… da lot ov 'em…" Brudz thrust the shovel into the rock-solid dirt, barely penetrating the surface. She flicked what little dirt was on the blade. "Can't wait ter git away from dis bog-'ole settlement… Even da beer tastes second rate… jus' wanna ride me bike 'n' let 'em choke on da dust…"

"Stop yer grumblin', I need yer to make dat fing yer said yew 'ad planned for me."

It had been several hours; the sun was now setting, and Brudz was sweaty from hacking away at the ground like an angry mole (the ground animal; not the type that shovels on makeup, or spies on people. And not the hairy type either). She hadn't heard anything but smart-alec remarks from the Gretchin since she first started digging; surprised to hear an Ork's voice, she looked up from her hole to see Orlen towering above her.

"I'm a little busy, case yew didn't notice." She replied to the larger Mek in a less than friendly tone. "Go break a leg or somefin'. I aint makin' nuffin fer yew." She bent back over and continued to hack away at the dirt, purposefully flicking the dirt up at Orlen in the process.

"Stop yer sulkin' an' git yer ungrateful butt outta dat 'ole!" Orlen ordered. "Da Gretchin can finish dis. Right now I needs somefin' ta kill Goffs wiv."

"Take a flyin' leap." Brudz snapped, flinging more dirt at Orlen. "I aint doin' nuffin' fer yew!"

"I'd kill yer right 'ere if yew weren't da only Mek able ter fix me up somefin'!" Orlen roared; he was getting upset again.

"Well good fing I am da only Mek capable of makin' fings. Useful 'avin' dese 'ere 'ands of mine, yep yep."

Brudz heard retreating footsteps. She looked up to see Orlen walking away. It wasn't over though; ten minutes later ha came walking back with something slung over his shoulder. It was red, black, and quite bent out of shape.

Brudz narrowed her eyes. "Why's yer got me bike?" She demanded, thoroughly angry that he even dared to lay a stump on her precious vehicle.

"Coz yer sistah said dat dis waz da best way ter get yer to stop bein' a turd." Orlen grinned cruelly. "Now, 'ere's da bargain; yew make dat fing fer me like yew said yew would, an' I won't give dis fing ter Ongrat as a liddle present."

The shovel hadn't even hit the ground by the time Brudz was running back to the Mek shop. She would do anything to keep her bike out of the hands of Ongrat!

The next morning, at the crack of dawn, Uurgrin, Jamz, Oric, Ongrat and several Nobs were standing on the top of the walls looking out towards the horizon. A dust cloud was rising into the sky.

"'Bout time dey showed dere ugly faces," Uurgrin snarled. The Boss was in the mood for a good fight. "Tell da boyz da Goffs'll be 'ere soon, an' ta get ready. An' Ongrat, yew stand out da front in case yer need ta let rip again."

Jamz jumped down from the wall roaring aloud, "WAAAAAAGH!" He crushed an unsuspecting Gretchin as he landed. "Da Goffs are commin', get yer weapons!"

Oric ran to the Mek Shop to pick up the wartrakk. He spotted Brudz welding something, yelling loudly, "Oi! Da Goffs iz commin', get yer self ready. I'll be takin' da wartrakk now." He mounted the large vehicle and started the engine. He noted that it rumbled slightly louder than last time he rode it. He rode away, knocking over a bundle of wooden posts which had been leaning up against a bench.

Cezzy was down at the cyboar pens inspecting the animals. They looked livelier now than two days ago. Although not one hundred percent healthy yet, the boars were capable of a good fight. The boarboyz were saddling their beasts and taking their animals to the front lines, where Uurgrin waited.

The Dok handed out syringes to the boarboyz as they left. "Inject da cyboar wiv dis if ya fink it needs a liddle perkin' up in da fight." Everybody accepted the little present willingly.

Outside of the walls, Orlen was standing with Ongrat and his Minders away from the swarm of eager Orks. "How many, Ongrat?" Orlen asked.

The psyker was visibly trembling; the power of the waagh was building up inside him as the Goffs got closer, and the Snakebites got more eager to fight. "At least fwree times our number," Ongrat said with a sniff. He wiped his eyes where the glowing essence of waagh was beginning to leak. He let off a small glowing fart.

Orlen slapped the psyker on the back. "We'll beat 'em, Ongrat. Gork an' Mork's watchin' us wiv much favour."

Ongrat nodded, but he didn't look entirely convinced. "Dey will be 'ere by sun high." He added. That gave the Snakebites only a couple of hours left to prepare.

"See yew at da afta party, eh?" Orlen grinned and walked off. There was always plenty of beer, teef, and pie to go around after a battle.

Uurgrin made sure the snake pits were sufficiently covered with nice thin wooden boards before resuming his place at front-and-centre with Oric and the wartrakk. The pits were scattered in front of the walls, and a few were placed inside; everyone knew to steer clear of the pits. The Waaghboss spotted Orlen, and yelled out to the Mek. "Oi, get back inside da walls. I don't want anymore dead Meks." Meks and Doks were crucial for the upkeep of the cyboars, and Uurgrin was determined that the Goffs would not kill the last of them.

"Yeah, I'm goin'." Orlen grumbled. He knew better than to disobey direct orders from the Boss.

Itching to get his stumps on something killy, he headed for the Mek Shop. Orlen walked in, and the door fell of its rusted hinges; he picked it up and sat it against the wall and headed for the farthest corner where he could hear Brudz tinkering about.

He saw her sifting through a box of bolts, singing to herself. "…'ere come da drums, 'ere come da drums – Baybeh baybeh baybeh, yew are me voodoo child, me voodoo child. Dun say maybe-maybeeeee – Ooooeeeeoooo – itz supa natral -"

"What, ain't yew finished yet?" Orlen called out, startling Brudz.

She whipped her head around angrily, glaring at Orlen. "Does it look like I'm finished?"

"Da Goffs'll be 'ere any minute. Gimme whateva yew've got made." Orlen replied urgently. "I wants ter kill stuff."

Brudz grabbed the whole box of bolts and carted them over to her work bench. "Alright, git over 'ere. I'll 'ave 'em finished in a few minutes. Den yew can wear 'em."

The war cries and the thunder of the Goffs boots could be clearly heard by now; they ran towards the settlement in a wave of green and black – Goffs were notorious melee combatants who believed that anything besides black clothing was ridiculous. They also believed that using guns was for pussies; they believed a real Ork would get in the thick of things with an axe or a club. They also favoured stikkbomz; a "handy" addition to their melee tactics so to speak.

Uurgrin raised his axe; it had a long handle made from squiggoth bones, and the head was crafted from iron. The blade was spiked and stained with blood from previous battles, and although rusty, was still capable of decapitating anyone foolish enough to get within swinging range. Uurgrin bellowed at his Orks, "C'mon ladz, let's rip into 'em!"

With the zest of a crazed bull, the first wave of Orks charged towards their opponents.

Cyboars charged forward as their masters flayed their hides; the wartrakk was at the front, leaving a thick black cloud of exhaust in its wake. Oric had one hand on the steering, and the other on the turret. He pulled the trigger, shedding the first blood of the enemy. The brawl had begun.


	10. Da Big Brawl

Chapta Nine: Da Big Brawl

Chapta Nine: Da Big Brawl

Cezzy stood well back from the walls; she gripped her chest-saw in one hand, and a stikkbom in the other. She also had a bag of syringes slung over her shoulder. The Dok kept a close eye on the sky above; if the Goffs Stormboyz – battle crazy Orks who sped into battle with jetpacks strapped to their backs – dropped in, she wanted to be the first to know. They wouldn't be hard to spot against the cloudless sky.

The squeal of the cyboars and the screams of many Orks carried back into the settlement. Weapons pinged and clanked and gunfire rattled the air – the Orks ordered to stay inside the settlement were getting wound up just hearing it.

Gretchin ran up to the top of the walls carrying bucket loads of stikkbomz with them. The Goffs weren't the only ones who liked to throw exploding things.

Time went by, minute by minute; the sounds of the battle drew closer – Cezzy could swear she heard Jamz hollering above the racket. But it was too hard to tell one Ork voice from the next.

Bright flashes indicated Ongrat was doing his job. Cezzy just hoped the Goffs didn't have a psyker, or things might get very messy indeed. Although she would have liked to have seen a showdown between two enemy Weirdboys.

"Cezzy!" Brudz' voice called from behind. "Ow's da fight goin'?"

"How should I know, I haven't got x-ray vision." Her sister replied as fondly as ever. "But I can tell yer dem Goffs is gonna be 'ere any minute now."

Brudz stood next to her sister, hefting a giant spanner that was nearly as tall as herself; her shoota was stuffed in her pocket. She didn't appear very happy however.

"Stop bein' grumpy," Cezzy spoke trying to get her sister to snap her out of her bad mood. "Yew should be 'appy, yer about ter get stuck inta yer first real fight – dere ain't been nuffin dis big at da squig farm, heh heh heh!"

"I'm jus' cranky coz I can't ride me bike to da fight… I didn't get a chance ter fix it." Brudz replied, glaring at the ground as though it was her enemy. "I wanted ter mow dem Goffs down wiv me lovely red bike."

"Where's Orlen, anyway? Aint 'Ee supposed ta be 'ere?" Cezzy asked changing the subject.

"Ee said 'ee woz gonna go find 'iz boyz, or somefin." Brudz shrugged.

A shrill shriek of euphoria grabbed the girls attention; they looked up, and saw several black dots in the sky. The dots quickly grew large as the first of the Stormboyz flew down into the settlement, screaming with joy.

Cezzy leant back, ready to throw her chest saw. "Let's get stabbin'!" She heaved the saw like a boomerang; it whizzed through the air and sliced open a Goff before it curved around and came flying back.

Brudz leaped out of the road; the saw sank into the ground where she stood moments before, nearly cutting her leg off. "Damn, I wanted da first blood!" She complained.

A pack of Stormboyz landed nearby. "Don't worry, dere's plenty more ov us, hur! Hur! Hur!"

A moment later, a pack of Snakebites boys charged the Goffs and a bloody fray began. Brudz ran forward with her spanner, and swung it at the first Stormboy she came across; it slammed into the Ork's shoulder, and bounced into the side of his face.

He swung around to face his attacker; blood dribbled out of the corner of his mouth and he held a large blade in one hand. "I'll slice yer open like a squig to da slaughter!" He threatened then lunged at Brudz; she tried to dodge the Stromboy's choppa but the Ork sliced her arm.

Brudz smacked the Ork in the chin with the end of her spanner; it dazed him for a second, but he was quick to recover. He swung his free hand and hooked the Mek in the side of the jaw with a powerful punch. A tooth flew from Brudz' mouth and she stumbled back.

"Dat makes us even," Brudz spat a blob of blood and saliva onto the ground. "But yew aint gonna get rich off me." She swiped her tooth off the dirt and pocketed it defiantly.

The Stormboy seemed to find this amusing. "Hur hur, it's gonna be fun ter kill yew."

Another mob of Stormboyz flew into the settlement and Brudz and Cezzy suddenly found them selves outnumbered. Even with the Snakebite boys it was going to be a struggle just to stay alive.

Cezzy came up behind Brudz and swung her chest saw, slicing open the mouthy Stormboy's neck. Brudz dived onto the Goff and finished him off with a crushing blow from her spanner. The girls howled out loud; they revelled in the death of the enemy, and got hacking with renewed energy.

At the front lines Uurgrin took a swing at a Goff Nob with his axe, as he sped past on the wartrakk; he took the Ork's head off and sent it flying like a golf ball. "Diiieeee!" The Waaghboss shouted.

Oric was down to one turret; he had used all the bullets up on the other one, leaving many a Goff with craters in their flesh or missing limbs. He swung the wartrakk around, ploughing through any Orks which stood in his way. He looped back towards the settlement; the Goffs were getting closer. Uurgrin was aware the Goff Stormboyz were already within the walls, but if any more Orks got past the Snakebites would have double back to defend the settlement. For now, the Orks inside the walls would have to fend off the Stormboyz.

Jamz stamped slowly but steadily through the crowd of Goffs, ripping limbs off and stomping on heads. The mega-armoured Nob was enjoying himself thoroughly. One exceptionally large Goff Nob with a brutish grin faced Jamz. Jamz sized the Goff up; he was well armed, and bore very thick armour. It wasn't mega armour, but it allowed the Ork to move more freely.

The pair charged each other; Jamz reached out with his mega-claw and the Goff swung a huge chainsaw. Sparks sprayed from the clash; Jamz grabbed the chainsaw blade with his mega claw; with his free hand, Jamz raised his shoota to use it as a club. From behind another two Goffs grabbed Jamz and pulled him off balance, before he could club the Goff Nob.

As the giant Ork toppled over sideways, the chainsaw blade snapped in his mega claw. The Goff Nob got lashed across his face by the stray chain, leaving a nasty gash and rending his right eye useless. The Goff let out a guttural howl and threw the remains of his now useless chainsaw at Jamz, cracking him on his exposed head.

Jamz felt the Goffs ripping and tearing at his armour. It took him a few seconds to recover from the blow to the head and realise that he was being swarmed by Goffs. He lashed out with his leg kicking a Goff boy in the gut, sending the Ork squealing into the hordes; with his mega-claw, he cut yet another Goff in two. Jamz flayed his arms and legs at all the Orks in reach, but for every one that was slain or pommeled another two would appear. It was hard enough for an Ork in bulky mega-armour to get back up onto his feet without being surrounded by Orks that wanted to throttle you.

The Goff Nob licked blood from his lips; he would have preferred it to have been someone else's blood, but not every Ork can have everything his own way. Angry for losing his eye the Goff stomped over to where Jamz was buried below a wriggling mass of Goff boys. As a metal-engulfed foot heaved through the Orks like a hammer, the nob grabbed it, and began to pull Jamz across the dirt.

"I'll rip yer 'eart clean from yer chest!" The Nob bellowed. "An' when I'm finished, dat armour'll be MINE!"

"I'll tear da tendons from yer brain 'fore dat 'appens!" Jamz replied with a snarl. His anatomical knowledge of the Ork physique left a lot to be desired. He grabbed a Goff and used him like a cricket bat, swatting the other Goff boys that were trying to rip into him, hollering his favourite war cry at the same time. "WAAAAAAAAGH!"

"Gimme dat!" The Goff Nob let go of Jamz' leg and snatched a large knife off a passing Ork. He Jumped onto Jamz Stomach, and began to push his way through the other Goffs to get to Jamz' exposed head.

"Gang way! Da bestest Nob 'n' leader ov da Snakebites tribe commin' frew!"

Jamz was lucky to have been a mega-armoured Nob that day; his three-inch thick armour saved him from being made into pie filling as the wartrakk ran into him. The Goffs who had been surrounding Jamz had not been as lucky.

The Wartrakk bucked and somersaulted side ways as it ploughed full-speed into Jamz and the Goffs. Many an Ork was squashed as the wartrakk skidded to a halt; Oric and Uurgrin had miraculously managed to only receive a few bruises as they were thrown off the vehicle when it impacted Jamz.

As the dust settled bewildered Goff survivors staggered around. One by one, they began to be beat to the ground in a bloody pulp by the thick end of Oric's squiggoth-tusk club.

"Hur! Hur! Hur! Dis iz fun! Reminds me ov da time when we paid ol' Grum a visit, eh Jamz?"

The mega-armoured Nob lay still for a few moments before sitting up with a confused look on his face. The Ork rubbed the side of his armour where the wartrakk's plough had struck, denting the plates. His confusion was quick to change to resentment. "I wanted ter kill dem Goffs!" He yelled. Despite his enthusiasm, the Nob looked worse for wear; he was bleeding from the joints of his armour, and many a lump had formed on his battered head.

"Jus' find some more," Oric said and walked over to help push Jamz back up onto his feet.

Uurgrin appeared from the cloud dust, brushing his furs down, grinning with only half his usual amount of teeth remaining. "Any chance we c'n do dat again?"

Stormboyz rained from the sky like meteors into the settlement. Cezzy and Brudz were being pushed back towards the front of the settlement where the snake pits had been dug out. The girls fought back-to-back, Cezzy slicing any Goff that tried to get too close and injecting others with a poisonous concoction which gave many of them horrible seizures. Brudz swung her giant spanner with the vigour of Don Bradman when he scored his first ever century in a test match (she swung it very, very, hard for anyone who doesn't know who Don Bradman is) caving in skulls and cracking ribs.

Their luck was in short supply though and their defence was overcome when a particularly manic Stormboy rocketed into them, sending them flying like ten-pins in bowling alley.

Brudz bounced off the ground and skidded to a halt on a wooden board which wobbled treacherously beneath her. She had landed on top of a hidden snake pit; Brudz could just hear the hiss of angry vipers above the racket of the battle.

She stood up slowly, trying not to disturb the thin wooden board which separated her from the cold-blooded critters below.

"I gotcha now!" A stormboy bellowed, running at Brudz grinning from ear to tatty ear. He had landed with all his weight onto the edge of the board before Brudz could move.

The Mek screeched curses as the board shifted beneath her feet, and up-ended as it split down the middle. She scrabbled for any hand-hold she could lay her claws on but she found none. Instead, she was fortunate enough to land on top of the startled Stormboy.

"Cezzy! Get me outta 'ere!" Brudz screamed, trying to hold onto the now-panicking Goff. "Shut yer whinnin'," she said stamping on his head, "It's yaw fault we're in dis mess!"

Snakes slithered about the Stormboy, biting his arms and legs mercilessly. He frothed at the mouth in a fit of rage (or possibly from necrosis of the brain) trying to stomp and stab and squish as many snakes as he could; the Ork standing on his shoulder was not at the top of his priority list of things to kill at that particular point in time.

"Oi! Oi! Cezzy!" Brudz yelled urgently. She leant against one wall to try and keep her balance; the Goff was jerking violently under her feet – it was like trying to ride a bucking bull.

After what felt like a millennium to the distressed Mek, Cezzy's face appeared over the top of the hole. "Yew look funny!" She said, laughing at her sister in the snake pit.

"Stop bein' entertained, 'n' get me outta 'ere!" Brudz held out her hand eager to be pulled out.

The snake pit had been dug surprisingly deep; the Snakebites had put a lot of effort – perhaps too much effort – into the traps. Cezzy had to get down onto her belly to grab her sister's arm.

She heaved and pulled her Brudz up towards the entrance. "Yew owe me ten teef fer dis," Cezzy announced, never missing an opportunity to extort anyone of anything.

"Yew can't leave me 'ere!" The Stormboy wailed, grabbed Brudz' leg and yanked hard, trying to pull himself out.

Cezzy slid head first towards the pit; she tried to stop herself from going over the edge with her spare hand, but the Stormboy was stronger.

"Fifty teef! FIFTY TEEF!" Brudz screamed at her sister, crushing Cezzy's hand in a vice grip in case the Dok considered letting go. "I'll give yer FIFTY teef if yer get me outta dis!"

The Dok gritted her teeth, snorting with the exertion of trying to pull two Orks up. "I'm tryin'! I'm tryin'!" But she was still slowly slipping over the edge. A large foot trod on her leg, pinning her where she was. "Ow! Damn Goffs, zog off!"

"I aint no Goff, get yer eyes checked!" Orlen smirked. He bent over and snagged Cezzy by the collar with a large metal claw. He lifted his foot and pulled her back, dragging Brudz out as well. "An' I'll take dat fifty teef."

"Get dis git off me!" Brudz said, flailing her limbs. The Stormboy was clinging to Brudz' legs like a limpet. He was bleeding from the masses of snake bites he had suffered, and his face was stuck in a permanent snarl with his eyes rolled into the back of his head.

Orlen thrust his free arm forward. The Stormboy's head exploded as a large drill rammed its way through the Ork's cranium. "Dat's an extra five teef." The Mek stood up looking at his new hand attachments with much admiration. "Dis drill thing's been makin' mince of dem Goffs, an' da claw fingy 'as ripped a good face or two off. Hur, hur, hur."

The drill on one stump rotated slowly as the Mek inspected it. On his other stump was a claw-like attachment, hooked at the tips. The attachment had been strapped on tightly, there had been no time to screw them to Orlen's arm bones.

"An' where da 'ell've yew been?" She asked as she stood up, flexing her crushed hand. "'Avin' a tea party wiv da squigs or somefin'?"

"Oo, me?" Orlen casually drilled the stomach of a Goff who tried to ram him, and threw the Ork's body aside. "Nah, jus' testin' out me new 'ands! Got attacked by a bunch ov Goffs back dere." He said, pointing over his shoulder with his claws.

"I want me bike so I c'n krump dem bastard Goffs…" Wheezed Brudz; she was lying on the ground on her stomach, happy to see soil beneath her and not snakes. "An' next time I gets inter a fight, I'll 'ave me kustom shoota ready… pity it got broke in da accident."

"Git up, or yew'll be stomped ter deff," Cezzy said giving her sister a rough nudge with her foot. "Goffs iz commin'."

Brudz pulled herself to her feet, and fetched her spanner which was lying on the ground a few meters away.

"Let's go see what's 'appenin' over da walls," Orlen suggested. "I wanna see 'ow da fight's goin'. We c'n climb up an' take a look." He nudged his head towards the right corner of the front wall; there was a ramp which led to the rampart, where many Gretchin tossed their stikkbomz from down into the carnage below.

"Alright, let's go." Cezzy agreed, reloading her syringes from a bottle filled with poison.

Orlen led the way, stabbing and drilling his way through the crowd of Goffs which was filling up the encampment. Brudz and Cezzy were close behind fending off any Orks Orlen hadn't quite killed. The three Orks dared not stay still in the one spot; they were at risk of being surrounded – Stormboyz were everywhere.

"I got dis feeling I don't wanna see what's over da walls," Brudz mumbled as they approached the start of the ramp.

"Shut yer yap 'ole," Cezzy snapped. "Dis aint da time ter be complainin' about stuff."

Surprisingly there were very few Goffs on the ramp and along the walls. The Goffs that were on there were quickly dispatched of as the three defending Orks charged up the ramp, shoving them over the edge or chopping into them.

As they reached the rampart the Orks turned their heads to the battle below. Brudz vomited over the edge at the sight – not from the gore, but from obvious dire situation which beheld them.

"Gee, uh, yer boss an' dat weirdo sure know how ter underestimate da enemy, don't dey?" Brudz said wiping her mouth of bile. "So much fer two-ter-one, dis is more like _ten_ ter one!"

Orlen stared down at the mass of black and green Goffs; it was hard to spot a Snakebite warrior. They were completely overrun by the enemy. "Don't be a coward," he said, not sounding wholly bold himself. "It's more like eight ter one. Not so bad."

Cezzy rolled her eyes sarcastically. She had witnessed her share of battles and knew they had very small odds of winning this one. "If somefin' don't 'appen fast, we're dead. All ov us. Dere's just too many ov 'em, Orlen."

A stikkbom flew past their heads from down below; it landed in the settlement and exploded. Brudz quickly crouched below the wall. "Duck down, so dey can't see us."

Cezzy and Orlen didn't object; the Snakebite had to just about lay on his stomach to get below the perimeter of the walls.

"What kills lots of Orks, real fast?" Cezzy though aloud.

The Orks contemplated it for a few minutes. Orlen eventually had a brain wave. "Explosions," he said.

"Yeah," Brudz nodded thoughtfully. "An explosion! Kinda like a stikkbom does, 'cept even bigga!"

"But how do we kill da Goffs, wivout killin' da Snakebites, too?" Cezzy queried.

"Dat's easy," Brudz grinned. "Orlen, how much do yer like yer home?"

The Snakebite Mek looked suspiciously at his smaller counterpart. "Why?"

"Well… coz… by sacraficin' yer ugly – I mean wundaful – settlement, we cud get all da Goffs in da one place. Den, BOOM! An' da Snakebites an' my bruva 'n' Oric can be safely not-in-da-settlement when it goes up inta flames, yeh. It'll be so easy, coz da Goffs iz already tryin' ta get in 'ere anyway."

"We're tryin' ter save dis place, not DESTROY it!" Orlen yelled; he was very opposed to the idea of the settlement being blown to oblivion.

As if she didn't hear Orlen at all, Cezzy scratched her chin and narrowed her eyes as she imagined the giant explosion. "Yeah, dat would work… da Snakebites c'n retreat to da camp, run right frew it, and out de uvah side. We close da doors, and da Goffs'll be stuck in 'ere coz they'd be too busy rippin' apart da buildin's. Den, we explode da place ter da warp 'n' back!"

"That's outrageous!" Orlen protested, standing up. He was getting very upset once again - Orlen wasn't very good at controlling his emotions. "I won't let yer blow dis place up! We Snakebites c'n 'andle da fight; we'll jus' stab 'em all ter deff. We don't need yer 'elp, yer dumb clan ain't know da meaning of tough. Yew may fink dis battle is lost, but den again yew is just a pair ov Evil Sunz 'oo 'as a fetish fer red fings, an' spend all yer time racin' across da desert on really fast wheelz dat yer put lotsa dakka on, an' spend all night fixin' an' paintin' an' upgradin'!"

Cezzy and Brudz looked at each other. "I fink 'ee got a bit sidetracked," Cezzy said to her sister.

"Yeah, just a bit." Brudz agreed. "I fink 'ee's jealous of me splendid bike, heh heh."

The young Mek looked up at Orlen; he looked as if he was about to cry. She changed to her serious/angry tone. "Yer big baby!" Brudz shouted at him. "Yer da biggest Mek I've ever seen," – she failed to mention that Orlen was the only other Mek she'd ever seen – "An' I, for a wee moment, looked up ter yer! Sure, yew 'ad no 'ands, but yer Boss sure seemed to have a high regard for yer. Now yer standin' dere, 'bout ter cry –wot kinda Ork cries for Mork's sake? We found a solution to a problem dat's about to kick yer clan's arse back ter creation, an' yew chuck a zoggin' wobbly about it. What's worse, Orlen, 'avin' yer settlement destroyed, or 'avin' da Goffs take it over, an' merge what's left ov yer friends into da Goff war band? Dunno 'bout yew, but I wouldn't let dem do dat ter my clan or war band. I'd do anyfin' ter prevent sucha fing 'appanin'."

The Dok crawled over to her sister and tugged her back from Orlen a few paces. "Idiot, dat Nob's bigger dan yew by a mile!" she hissed. Looking up to the Snakebite she spoke, "I c'n kill 'er if yer like, Orlen – it might make yer feel betta." She had a poisonous syringe in her hand, ready to jab Brudz on Orlen's command.

"Don't do dat…" Orlen gazed out across the battlefield. "… we need ter make a really big bomb."

Uurgrin's hut was in the centre of the settlement, the perfect place for hiding a dangerous mix of combustible things. It was also vacant of any Goffs – they were too busy fighting Snakebites outside to bother anyone inside it. Orlen had ordered his cronies to keep all Goffs away from the centre of the camp while they built the bomb. He had also ordered several Gretchin to lend a hand fetching materials; two of the Gretchin had been assigned the task of seeking out Uurgrin to inform him of the plan to detonate the encampment. Orlen told them to leave out the details of where the bomb was being set up…

The first thing put inside Uurgrin's hut was all the stikkbomz the Gretchin could find. Brudz and Cezzy smuggled cans of nails, screws and rivets out of the half-destroyed Mek shop. Orlen rolled several barrels of fuel into the hut, and the pub was raided for any and all other flammable liquids (mainly fungus beer). What little gun powder was available was placed at the centre of the pyramid, surrounded by the alcohol and fuel.

Orlen stood back to admire the potentially destructive pile of junk. He was smiling, until something crossed his mind. "Uh… how are we gonna set it off?"

Cezzy threw a can of engine oil onto the pile. "What? Oh, I never fought ov dat."

"Let's just get dat weirdo Ongrat ta light it up. Heh, heh, heh! It won't matter if 'ee dies." Brudz smirked; she thought her joke was very funny even if nobody else did.

"Great finkin'!" Orlen said slapping Brudz on the back so heartily she was thrown to the floor winded. "We'll use Ongrat!"

Cezzy was about to scold Orlen for being sarcastic at such a crucial time when she realised what he must have been thinking. "Yeah, he can blast da hut from a distance wiv 'is psychic powers. I just 'ope 'ee ain't dead yet."

"Oi," Orlen addressed a Gretchin that was about to run out to get more flammables for the pile, "Go find Uurgrin, an' tell 'im we need Ongrat ta set da bomb alight. Don't die – make sure 'ee gets da message! An' if dat fails – meaning if Uurgrin is dead or incapable of contacting Ongrat - find Ongrat an' tell 'im ter meet me 'ere."

"Oh! An' give da boys some o' dis. Jus' inject it – give it to da biggest boys, I ain't got much!" Cezzy chucked the Gretchin a bag full of syringes. "Dat's a new mix ov fightin' jooce I made. Should 'elp 'em smash some 'eads in."

"Yeah, whatever." The small Gretchin grabbed the bag and ran out of the hut with his large out-of-proportion feet slapping on the ground as he ran.


	11. Kaboom

Chapta Ten: Kaboom

Chapta Ten: Kaboom

Jamz, Oric, Ongrat and several Snakebite Nobs were in the middle of fighting off Goff veterans when two Gretchin arrived at the scene.

"Oi, Boss, Orlen's got a message fer ya!" One of the small runts shouted above the noise.

Sweat and blood dripped from Uurgrin's thick forearm as he his spiked axe at a Goff, cleaving off the Ork's arm. "I aint exactly got da time ter stop 'n' chat, Gretchin! Jus' tell me what 'ee wants."

The Gretchin dodged several potentially lethal stomping boots, jumped, and climbed up Uurgrin's back, clinging onto the Boss's furs. He whispered into Uurgrin's ear so the Goffs didn't over hear. "Orlen said 'ee's buildin' a bomb inside da settlement ta blow up da Goffs wiv. 'Ee said dat when it's ready, 'ee needs yer to get all da remaining Snakebites ter run frew da camp, so all da Goffs follow, an' retreat out da uvah side, 'n' lock all da Goffs in. Den, 'ee's gonna blow up da camp wiv da Goffs in it." The runt hid behind the Boss's head, ready to dodge an angry fist. The Gretchin had been expecting an adverse reaction, but none came.

Uurgrin scowled but did not go completely agro – the thought of losing the battle was no longer at the back of his mind, it had been creeping it's way through the dense jungle inside the Ork's head for a while now. He would never admit it to his Orks, but he doubted the Snakebites would win this battle – he had immensely misjudged his foe.

"Alright, tell 'im I said we'll do it once 'ee tells us to. An' tell all da Nobs what's appanin', an' ter be ready fer da signal fer yew-know-what." Uurgrin replied to the Gretchin, stumbling back from at attack by a large Goff Nob.

The Gretchin nodded and jumped down; he sent his companion to inform Orlen of the Boss's decision while he ran around to seek out the Snakebite Nobs.

"I've got it!" Oric screamed aloud as he raised his club and brought it down with a sickening crunch on a battered Goff.

Jamz cut open the stomach of a Nob. "Got what?"

"I'll call 'er Muvver!" Oric grinned and ducked as an axe came close to cutting his head off.

"Call what Muvver?" Jamz asked confused. "Do yew 'ave a pet squig, or somefin'?"

"No, no, me squiggof tusk toof."

Jamz went back to clouting things, shaking his head. "Typical of Oric." He muttered. "WAAAAGH!"

Ten minutes later, another Gretchin arrived with a message for Uurgrin. "Oi, Boss," he whispered as he climbed up onto the Ork's shoulder. "Orlen says 'ee needs Ongrat ter detonate da bomb. Says 'ee wants 'im at da camp wiv 'im."

Uurgrin was breathing heavily – he was slowly beginning to tire. He'd been fighting the biggest of the Goffs for several hours without a break. "Can't 'ee use someone else? Oh, fine, whatever. Tell Ongrat ta go – an' tell Orlen ta 'urry up, wivout Ongrat we'll be really strugglin'."

"No worries Boss," The Gretchin pulled out a syringe from the bag. "Da Dok gave me a few presents." He jabbed Uurgrin and injected the contents of the needle. "I'll be on me way now."

The Gretchin jumped down, and ran about injecting the Boss's mob – Jamz, Oric, and the biggest Snakebite Nobs all received a little pick-me-up. The Orks frothed at the mouth and shook feverously as the fightin' jooce took effect; Uurgrin and his Orks looked like rabid animals as they fought.

After running out of the fightin' jooce, the Gretchin ran off to find Ongrat – he wasn't hard to spot. There was always bright explosions and psychotic screaming wherever Ongrat and his Minders were fighting.

Heading across the battlefield the Gretchin saw the show; full-blown waagh energy was cascading through hordes of Goffs and off-shoots crackles in the sky like fireworks. At the epicentre were Ongrat and his Minders. The Gretchin approached Ongrat with much caution; it would only take the smallest bolt of stray waagh energy to crisp something as small as a Gretchin. Eventually he made it to the ring of Minders which surrounded Ongrat, and pushed his way through.

The Gretchin shielded his eyes as a bright white-blue light poured out of Ongrat's mouth like water from a fire hydrant. "Ongrat! Boss says yer gotta go to meet Orlen in da camp. Orlen will explain ev'rythin' when yer get dere. 'Ee's in da Boss's 'ut."

"What?" Ongrat sounded surprised. "We're barely holdin' back da Goffs as it is. I can't go anywhere. Yew sure dat's what da Boss said?" Ongrat shook violently; the white-blue substance seeped from every orifice of his body, before it exploded out of his mouth in another torrent of waagh energy.

"Yeh, dat's what da Boss said. But if da plan goes well, den we won't 'ave ter worry about holdin' off da Goffs fer much longer." The Gretchin explained. "Orlen's got somefin' cookin'."

One of the deranged Minders snorted gleefully. "Da-ha, ha, ha! Cookin'! Yummy."

"Shut up you twit," Ongrat snapped at the Ork, and looked down at the Gretchin. "Alright. I'll come. But it's goin' ta be 'ard ta git back to da camp if da Goffs fink I'm alive. Let me just fake a deff."

Not sure what to expect, the Gretchin climbed onto one of the Minder's backs to give Ongrat some space. The Weirdboy let off one more spout of energy, before screaming like a man of fire, clutching his head and falling to the ground. The Minders all looked around; their faces gave away that had no idea what just happened to Ongrat.

"Quick, take da dead Weirdboy back ta camp!" The Gretchin ordered. He knew Ongrat was alive, but he had to get him out of there before the Weirdboy released another bolt of energy and giveaway that he wasn't actually dead. With so much fighting the energy was quick to build up. "C'mon yew lot, get Ongrat's body outta 'ere, 'fore it spontaneously combusts or somefin' 'orrible like dat!"

Two of the Minders grabbed Ongrat's "body" and headed for the camp's entrance. The rest continued to fight the Goffs to cover their retreat. Once inside the camp walls, the Minders ploughed their way through the mobs of Goff Stormboys as they followed the Gretchin. Once or twice Ongrat released puffs of waagh energy which was more than enough to keep the majority of Goffs well away.

"Orlen, Ongrat's 'ere!" The Gretchin announced as he ran through the door to Uurgrin's hut; the pyramid of explosives was looking well stocked. The Minders were about to throw Ongrat's body on the pile when he sprang to life, leaping out of their hands. "I ain't dead, an' even if I was, throwin' me on a junk pile ain't da way ter treat me!"

The Minders looked at Ongrat confused, but nodded anyway. Ongrat dismissed the pair, ordering them to go back to the fight. Usually Minders would never leave a psyker Ork such as Ongrat, but the sparks flying around Ongrat's head was enough to get them scuttling back to fight the Goffs.

"Ongrat!" Orlen greeted the Weirdboy as if he was a long lost relative or friend. "I was worried yew were dead. We might 'ave 'ad ter use more unfortunate means ta light da bomb uverwise."

Ongrat looked at the pyramid which stood before him. "Yer plan is a giant explosive mess?" He said, half amused. "What's dis got ter do wiv me though?"

Orlen put an arm around Ongrat's shoulders. "Yew are gonna light it up, hur, hur, hur."

"Let's tie 'im up an' throw 'im on da heap," A shrill annoying voice piped up behind Ongrat. Brudz peeked around the Weirdboy. "Dem uver two 'ad da right idea."

Ongrat turned around, ready to hit Brudz when Cezzy ran over with a stool. "No, no, yew save yer energy Ongrat. I got 'er! Hee! Hee!" The Dok pounced on her sister, breaking the stool over the Mek's head. "I always wanted ter do dat."

Brudz fell to the ground dazed. "Oooowwie…" She moaned. "I fawt yew said not ter fight 'round ugly dere…"

Ongrat's eyes wept waagh energy; he shook his head flicking the essence off. "There are some exceptions to dat rule." He replied.

"I fink we're just about done," Orlen said addressing everyone. "I'll tell da remaining Gretchin ter warn all da Snakebites; while they're doin' dat, I'll quickly go over da plan one more time ter make sure nobody zogs up."

Not long after, Uurgrin received the message to retreat. He bellowed out across the battlefield, ordering all Snakebites to return to the settlement. At first a trickle of Orks ran through the great gates, but it quickly increased. The mob was slowed as they met the Goff stormboyz, but the tide of Snakebites broke through the resistance.

The Weirdboy, the Dok and the two Meks stood at the top of the south-east corner of the wall over looking the settlement and watching the Snakebites retreat. It was as far as they could get from Uurgrin's hut where Ongrat could ignite the bomb from.

Brudz rubbed her lumpy head. "It still 'urts…" she complained aloud. Her gaze wandered across the camp, stopping on the Mek shop. "Pity dat place 'as gotta go up in flames," She sighed thinking of all the potential devices she could have made. A dreadful realisation suddenly crossed her mind. "Blood, spew 'n' bile!"

Ongrat looked at the Evil Suns Mek with a slight sneer. "What's up wiv yew?" he questioned.

Forgetting all about her cuts and bruises the young Mek pushed past Cezzy and Orlen. "Me bike! Me precious BIKE! It's still in da Mek shop! It'll be blow ter bits!"

Cezzy tried to grab her sister but the Ork slipped out of her grasp. "Yew idiot! Fergit about da bike! Da Goffs'll be 'ere any minute, an' we gotta blow dem up!"

Brudz ran off along the wall towards a ramp. Cezzy-Po followed in pursuit shouting curses and threats. Orlen looked from Ongrat to the Evil Suns girls. He was torn between protecting the psyker in case the Goffs attacked him, and preventing the Dok from being blown to pieces; he still needed some new hands to be sewn onto his stumps. "If I – "

"Yes, yes, just go," Ongrat said shooing Orlen like an annoying child. "I'll make sure da bomb goes off – don't yew worry 'bout dat. An' no one'll get near me. I lived dis long fer a reason, ya know!" He wasn't as worried as Orlen was about who or what got caught in the explosion.

Brudz and Cezzy ran down the ramp and through the camp towards the Mek shop. They ran through mobs of Snakebites who were hurrying in the opposite direction to get out of the camp. Orlen lumbered after them slowly, shoving Orks out of his way.

"Cezzy! Get back 'ere! Brudz! Do as yer sister tells yer!" He cried out but neither sister responded.

The Mek shop was just beyond the Weirdboys and minders huts. Brudz jumped through a hole in the Mek shop wall and looked around frantically for her bike.

"It's not where I put it!" She growled turning over a bench in frustration.

Cezzy grabbed Brudz' arm. "Idiot, let's get out ov 'ere before dis place goes up in a ball of flame!"

Brudz tried to pull her arm free from her sister's grip. "I ain't goin' nowhere wivout me bike!"

Orlen crashed through the wall, not bothering to use the door. "It's over there," he said pointing to a heap covered with cloth and chains. "I hid in case I needed ter use it as a bargainin' chip coz yew woz bein' a pain."

Brudz and Cezzy ran over the disguised bike. The pair tried to unwrap it, but the chains were tangled together. "How'm I gonna get it outta 'ere if it's like dat!" The young Mek yelled angrily.

Orlen walked over and grabbed it with his arms and hefted the bike off the floor. "I'll carry it." He said. "Now get let's get outta 'ere!"

The trio were about to leave when the doors to the Mek shop were smashed open; a mob of Goffs stood in the door frame.

"Oi, look dere!" One of the smaller Goffs said pointing Orlen and co. "Dere's some more Orks, an' dey's tryin' ter hide from us. Hur, hur, how pafetic."

"Why's dem two wearin' red fings?" Another asked. "Dey don't look like Snakebites."

The three friends slowly crept towards the back entrance while the Goffs stood there talking.

A Goff Nob squinted his eyes as he studied the enemy; Cezzy wore a lab coat covered in blood splatters, and all kinds of medical instruments dangled from her. Brudz' belt was stuffed with spanners, and she had grease and oil stains on her clothes. His lips slowly formed into a teeth-baring scowl; he knew what he saw. "Dem two looks like dey's a Mad Dok an' a Mek from da Evil Suns clan… An' dat big one… could 'ee be… Yeah, 'ee iz! 'Ee's da Snakebite Mek da we cut da 'ands off! GET 'EM, BOYZ!"

"Run for it!" Cezzy screeched, running out the back entrance. Orlen and Brudz followed closely.

Orlen tried to direct the girls through the back streets of the settlement to the southern wall, but Goffs seemed to be at every turn. The word had spread through the Goffs like wild fire that there were still two Meks and a Mad Dok alive. It quickly turned into a witch hunt on a colossal scale.

Goffs chased them though the settlement, ignoring all the fleeing Snakebites. Orlen found it hard to keep up with the girls, and he stopped briefly beside a snake pit and threw the bike into it.

Brudz looked on in horror. "What're yew doin'!?"

"Yer bike'll be safe dere," Orlen explained and ran. "Follow me, an' don't stop fer nuthin'!"

The Snakebite Mek charged through the streets; he entered a building and barged through the wall (it was an advantage to have huts made from wood, grass and mud). He did this several times to get around angry mobs of Goffs, not stopping once to catch his breath. They were almost at the south entrance when a pack of stormboyz flew out of the sky and surrounded them.

Cezzy-Po looked up towards the wall; she could see Ongrat powering up ready to detonate the bomb with a blast of waagh energy. "We ain't got time ter fight 'em," She warned Orlen.

"Shit, dis sucks!" Brudz cursed looking around for some way to escape.

The Dok nudged her sister with her elbow subtly and flashed a quick sly grin at her. At first Brudz looked puzzled but as soon as her sister began making guttural cries similar to what you might hear a demon from the warp make and producing froth at the corners of her mouth she caught on to the plan.

"Oh no!" Brudz yelled fearfully, looking down at her sister who was lying on the ground faking a convulsion. "She's got vercaskribula, a terrible, terrible, flesh-eatin', brain-killin', organ-krumpin' VIRUS!"

Orlen didn't know what to do; he looked equally confused and even a little scared just as the Goffs did. Brudz ran around frantically, limbs flailing. She ran up to a Goff and grabbed him, shaking him and screaming hysterically about exploding hearts and brains dribbling out noses. When he was sufficiently horrified, she targeted another Goff and soon the stormboyz looked fearful and unwilling to go anywhere near the Dok.

"Pick me up and run yew squig-brained fungus brain," Cezzy whispered to Orlen while the Goffs were distracted. "An' start screamin' like a Weirdboy! Pretend yer infected or somefin'!"

Realising it was all just a façade to scare the Stormboys, Orlen joined in on the show. He picked Cezzy-Po up with one arm, and began screaming and shaking his head; saliva flew everywhere.

Brudz was partaking in a screaming contest when Orlen ran past. She followed, leaving the stunned Goffs to look about wondering if the person next to them would start convulsing and have their hearts explode. Orlen put Cezzy-Po down once they were a safe distance from the Stormboys.

They ran for their lives; the gates were closing – all of the remaining Snakebites were outside the settlement's walls. Cezzy-Po and Brudz reached out and grabbed the edge of the gate to hold it ajar, giving Orlen enough time to catch up and push it open enough for them to slip through.

The gates closed behind them as they exited the settlement; they saw Uurgrin and what was left of his Clan standing well back from the walls. A bright light glowed from the corner of the wall as Ongrat unleashed a furious beam of waagh energy. The Weirdboy leaped from the wall just as the initial shockwave of the blast hit, sending him flying.

Cezzy-Po, Brudz and Orlen tumbled through the air and bounced off the ground from the force of the blast. The gates flew open, nearly ripped from their hinges and the walls rattled ominously. A giant plume of red, yellow, orange and black cascaded into the sky signalling the destruction of the camp.

All the Orks' ears buzzed from the blast. It took a few minutes for the ringing to dim, and their hearing to return. Uurgrin studied the camp through the open gates; flames engulfed the settlement, turning everything it touched to cinders. He ordered half of his clan to circle around the settlement and kill any Goffs who walked out of the north entrance. The Goffs lucky enough to survive the blast itself ran about trying to escape the fire; those who ran through the south gate were cut down by the Snakebite hoard, and their teeth ripped out of their heads.

Uurgrin, Jamz, Oric and three large Nobs approached the gate. Uurgrin inspected the walls. "We'll 'ave a lot ov rebuildin' ter do afterwards." He muttered. "Da walls took a poundin'."

Several hours later when the sun was beginning to sink, the Snakebites lit a bonfire outside the settlement where the major battle had taken place. They burned the bodies of the dead Goffs after stripping them of anything useful.

Brudz limped about with a bucket scavenging teeth and trinkets. She was looking for a trophy to adorn her bike with – if it survived. She was rummaging through the corpses of a couple of Goff Nobs when someone snatched her bucket off the ground.

"Oi!" She shouted, jumping up. "Dose iz mine! Huh? Orlen?"

Orlen grinned down at Brudz with her bucket gripped in one of his new hands. "Yew owe me fifty-five teef, if I remember correctly."

Cezzy-Po looked at Orlen's hands proudly. Her chest saw was covered with dried blood where she had hacked off two hands from the dead Goffs. "I am da greatest transplanter dat ever existed," she said with much self-admiration. "I c'n fix anyfin' Orky."

"Tell 'im ter give dem teef back!" Brudz growled. "I deserves dem, after all dis crap!"

"A deal's a deal," Cezzy replied. "Orlen gets fifty five of yer teef. Be thankful 'ee didn't ave ter rip 'em outta ya gob."

Orlen counted out the teeth, pocketing them in lots of five. "…'An ten-fives. Dere. Yew can 'ave da rest."

He chucked the bucket back to Brudz; there was barely a quater of a bucket left of teeth. "After all I did fer yer clan!" She scowled resentfully. "Ungrateful squig shi- Oi! What yer fink yer doin'! Yew can't take does, dey're mine!"

Brudz gripped on tight to the bucket; Jamz had extended his arm over her head and grabbed the bucket. "Let go ya big git!"

Jamz lifted the bucket and Brudz from the ground. He shook her off the bucket like dirt from the roots of a plant. "I'm bigger dan yew, so I'll do whatever I wants ter!" Jamz replied as he poured the contents of the bucket into a pull-string bag. When he had finished, the mega-armoured Nob jammed the bucket down over Brudz' head and pinched it around her neck. "Later, hur, hur!" He stomped off, crushing dead bodies under his large metal-clad feet.

Cezzy-Po laughed as she watched her sister struggling with the bucket. She didn't offer any sort of help; it had been a long time since she had been this entertained and she wasn't about to ruin it. After the Mek had stumbled around, blindly tripping over dead Orks and getting stabbed by discarded choppas which littered the battle field for about an hour, Cezzy-Po and Orlen offered to help.

The Dok stitched up her sister's cuts while the bucket was still stuck on her head (to help prevent being bitten), and afterwards, Orlen cut open the bucket with a pair of tin snips.

Unfortunately, all the beer had been detonated. So for the rest of the night, the Orks ate around the giant bonfire (the Goffs were quite meaty…) and scavenged loot from the dead. All except for Cezzy-Po and Orlen who were now running away from a very angry Brudz – who just happened to _conveniently_ (i.e. because the narrator is sadistic) find a chainsaw lying on the ground.


	12. Pecking Order

Chapta Eleven: Pecking Order

Chapta Eleven: Pecking Order

The smell of new cement plagued Marco, even while he sat eating baked beans from a can in the mess hall with Sam and Barthees. He'd had baked beans for breakfast, lunch and dinner for the past three days - a dangerous thing to do when you live in an underground enclosure.

"This is the last time I'm eating cold baked beans," The sergeant said scraping the last of the sauce from his can. "One of you is going to cook something tomorrow night for dinner. I don't care what it is, as long as it doesn't make me feel like I have an after burner for an asshole."

"Don't look at me," Sam said between mouthfuls. "I ain't cooking just because you have farting problems. Take some charcoal tablets or something."

Barthees glared at Marco. Immediately the young private defended himself. "You want me to cook? Forget it, totally forget it. I've been working my ass off, unlike you two!"

What Marco said was true; his search area was bigger than Sam's and the sergeant's put together, plus some more. But this didn't make the sergeant any more sympathetic.

"Cook something tomorrow night, private Fezz. That's an order." The sergeant only called Marco by his rank and surname when he was being serious (or pushy).

"Yes…sergeant…"

"There's my boy! So, what are we having?"

Marco held baked bean can close to his mouth while he ate. "Something that'll make you wish we had baked beans…" He murmured.

Barthees narrowed his eyes. "What was that you said?"

"I said," Marco replied slowly, "Something besides baked beans."

The sergeant stood up and stretched. "You're a bright lad." He grinned as a fart squelched out. "Goodnight!" Barthees walked away from the bench, threw his can in the bin, and walked out of the mess hall.

Sam pinched her nose. "God that stinks."

"No kidding," Marco replied trying not to breathe.

After the air cleared, Sam asked about tomorrow's dinner with some suspicion. "So Marco, what _do_ you plan for dinner? Should I opt for take-away instead?"

A smile flickered across Marco's face briefly. "Well, that depends if you're familiar with wasabi. I found jars of the stuff in the store room."

Sam's eyes watered at the thought. Chillies were like mint leaves compared to wasabi. "That'll burn a hole in the sergeant's pants for sure…"

That night Marco tossed and turned in his dreams. He was having nightmares about large, green monsters - the Orks. He snapped awake, bolting upright he slammed his head on the beam of the bunk above him. "Ouch!"

Unable to go back to sleep, the private decided to go get a drink of water. He pulled his sheets away; he wore flannelette pyjamas. He pulled his slippers on, and crept over to the cupboard and got his dressing gown out - and his laser pistol. He was still feeling jittery from his dream.

Marco's footsteps echoed down the corridor; the pale lights gave the place an eerie setting. "There's no Orks here…there's no Orks here… just us three." He kept whispering to himself.

On arrival at the mess hall, Marco turned all the lights on. He felt slightly better, but he couldn't help feeling a little paranoid; there was something about big empty underground bases that Marco didn't like.

Walking over to the sink, he grabbed a clean metal cup and filled it with water. On the level below, the base had its own water desalination and filtration plant as well as two generators which provided the base with clean water and electricity.

_This tastes awful, _Marco thought to himself as he drank the chlorine-enriched water. _Why do they bother? It's not like the filter systems can't decimate any germs. Maybe they just added it to make the water taste crap…_

Marco walked to sit down at a bench while he sipped water from his cup. He winced as the cold seat sent a chill up his spine. For a few minutes the private sat quietly thinking to himself; he was bored, but did not feel like going back to bed. After finishing his water, he decided to see if there were any writing pads in the storeroom – he decided to take his therapists advice and write a journal.

He washed his cup and walked through the kitchen, down a short hallway, and into a large room lined with shelves jammed with boxes of everything from food to spare parts for the sentinels. Marco found a shelf labelled _stationary_ where all the office equipment was stacked; he found a pen and a green hard-cover grided note pad. He took them back to the mess hall and sat down again, ready to write.

_Dear Military Field Note Pad:_

_My name is Private Marco P. Fezz, I tried to get into the Space Marines, but I failed the psychology and fitness tests. I am now an aspiring scientist in the Imperial Guard – however, I am currently sitting in the mess hall of an underground base where the water tastes like pool water. I just hope nobody has peed in it._

_Anyway, I was assigned to do scientific research and planetary exploration. It was all going well until I found out the planet is plagued by Orks, and that they _are_ our scientific research. I haven't even seen an Ork before! Barthees says they're big, green, and have a constant stupid look on their faces. Well, I guess if they're big, at least they won't be hard to spot._

_Changing the subject – writing about Orks is making me scared again – the two people I am on this planet with are Sergeant Barthees and Sam. The sergeant isn't very nice, he always picks on me. Sam's likes to pull pranks of me, but at least she doesn't treat me like I'm a servant._

_That reminds me – the sergeant has ordered that I cook dinner tonight. I better not write down the recipe in case Barthees reads this entry; it would spoil the surprise. I hope we have vegetables in storage; even dehydrated ones would be good. Canned stuff aint too bad, either. We've been eating baked beans ever since we got here; I'd probably even empathise with Barthees for wanting something that wasn't drowned in tomato sauce if he wasn't such a Hitler (evil nazi guy from before the start of the Empire – I did ancient history at school)._

_I'm not going to worry about dinner until the time comes to cook it though; I have enough on my plate. I have to finish searching Level One for substitute pool balls – the Commissar gave us a pool table with no cues or balls, and the sergeant wants to find something we can use in place of them. I don't know what he expects to find that is the same shape and size of pool balls, but I have a feeling my search is futile. The guy is nuts, I swear. Emperor forbid when he runs out of alcohol and cigars! It's just a pool table for god's sake; I'd rather just convert it into an office desk or something useful. It might even make a comfortable bed. Anything would be better that the pigeon holes we have for bunks._

_Well, I had better get back to sleep now… I am feeling tired again, and I've got a long day ahead of me. If I'm lucky, the sergeant will let me get off early so I can prepare dinner. Yay! Maybe being volunteered for kitchen duty won't be such a bad thing after all._

_Bye, from Marco._

Marco closed the note pad and put it and the pen into the pocket of his pyjamas. He walked out of the mess hall, turning of the lights on the way out, and made a pit stop to the toilet before returning to bed. He slept soundly in his cramped bunk.

"Reveille! Wake up slaves, time for another day of doing what I tell you to do."

Sam rolled over and turned her back on the Sergeant. "I'll be ready for work at zero-seven hundred hours. Until then, I will do as I please."

Marco tried to ignore the sergeant as well, but Barthees ripped the sheets off the young private. "Up! Up! We've got balls to find!" He threw the sheets on the floor and walked for the door. "If you're not in the mess hall in ten minutes Marco, you'll be cleaning my toe nails after dinner tonight."

The private got out of bed and changed into his uniform; he wouldn't put it past the Sergeant to make him do such a thing for being late. He hurried for the door, grabbing his helmet off the rack on the way out.

"I'm here, Sergeant!" Marco called out as he ran into the mess hall. The smell of coffee wafted up his nose making his eyes water; he wasn't fond of the caffeinated substance. Especially not the dry-freeze version the Imperial Guard issued.

"Good! Now, get something to eat, sit down and shut up. I'll be briefing you and Sam on today's mission." Barthees sculled the last of his coffee and began to make another one. "We're doing something a little different today, since our search is showing up no results."

"Caffeine makes you pee more," Marco replied. He wasn't sure if the sergeant was aware of that fact. "And hot chocolate tastes better anyway."

Barthees looked up from his coffee at Marco. "You're an idiot." He said and stirred his drink.

Marco shrugged; he tried to warn the sergeant of caffeine's side effects. Hungry, the private went over to the storeroom to search for something to eat. "Baked beans… more baked beans… spiced baked beans… honey-mustard baked beans. Mmm, actually that sounds nice." He opened the box of honey-mustard baked beans and took out a can and returned to the mess hall to eat.

"Aren't you sick of eating those?" Barthees asked. "If I eat one more can of that crap, I'm going to die."

"It's a different flavour," Marco explained. "Honey-mustard."

Barthees shivered as he watched Marco peel off the can lid and down the contents. "That's just offensive; who's ever heard of honey-mustard baked beans," he muttered. "They all do the same thing no matter flavour they are anyway."

Ten minutes later Sam walked into the mess hall; she was in her uniform and had her hair pulled back into her usual neat bun. She was as stoic as ever, neither smiling nor frowning she went about getting her breakfast like a robot as if Marco and Barthees weren't there. It wasn't until she sat down to eat a can of honey-mustard baked beans that she finally spoke.

"I like this flavour." She said expressionlessly with a mouthful of food.

Barthees averted his eyes from the offensive sight honey-mustard baked beans. "Twisted. You're both twisted."

The corner of Sam's mouth twitched in amusement. "No, I'm just not fussy. Food is food."

"Okay, okay, enough of this. Just hurry up and eat, I want to see you both down at the communications centre at zero-seven hundred hours – that's in fifteen minutes – because it's the only place in this base that has a smartboard and markers." Barthees threw his cup into the sink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "It's on Level Two. Take the elevator near the dormitories and go down. It's the door on your left."

After the sergeant had left the mess hall and doors slid closed behind him, Sam turned her gaze to Marco, who sat diagonally opposite her. "Nightmares?" She asked.

Marco looked a little surprised; he thought everyone was asleep when he woke up. "Well, um… yeah." He confessed blushing. "How did you know?"

"You looked white as a sheet when you left the room. And you had your pistol."

Marco nodded; it must have been quite obvious he was scared last night.

"You'll be fine," Sam spoke. "We are well protected here, despite the Commissar's obvious loathing of Barthees."

"Are you a psyker, or something?" Marco asked, looking at Sam suspiciously.

Sam stood up. "No, I'm just good at reading people's emotions and expressions. Now come on, I'll show you to the communications room."

The pair walked out and down the hall past their dorms. They entered the elevator, and as the capsule fluidly descended two doors emerged. Sam pressed a button and the door to their left slid open, revealing a short corridor with a pair of sliding doors at the other end. They exited the elevator and walked down and through the doors.

Barthees stood near the back of the room drawing something on the smartboard. He didn't look over his shoulder to speak. "Come over here."

Sam and Marco walked over; the room was full of radio equipment, fax machines, a few computers and general office equipment. They pulled out two computer chairs and rolled them over to sit in front of the smartboard.

Barthees turned to face them, pointing at the smartboard. "This is a map of our area," he explained. "And these represent old human settlements. Obviously, humans no longer live there. And this is our base, here."

"That's an awful map," Sam criticized. "Is that even to scale?"

"Give me a break private," Barthees said pulling out an old looking piece of paper. "All I had to go buy was this one-hundred year-old tourist pamphlet. Commissar Lindel wasn't generous enough to let us a spaceship to take geographic scans of the planet. And besides, we are _planetary explorers_ after all."

"We're also scientists," Marco added.

"Yes, yes, that too." Barthees said rolling his eyes. "Anyway, back to the point of this meeting."

The sergeant elaborated on his mission plan; his primary aim was to search every ex-human settlement until they found some pool balls or something similar, and avoid being killed by any Orks they might run into along the way. Their secondary aim was to plot any Ork settlements they might stumble across for future reference.

Sam stood up and took the marker from Barthees. She labelled all of the ex-human settlements as "Ork Settlement" and threw the marker back to Barthees. "Is your brain fried? Those old cities aren't going to be empty, desolate, ghost town devoid of any life. The Orks will have infested them! If we walk into any _one _of those settlements we'll be facing an armada of greenskins." Sam's eyebrows were creased; it was the only indication besides her slightly raised voice that she was angry.

"Well, if we're lucky, the Orks will have over looked the pool balls." Barthees shrugged. "Orks probably wouldn't like the colours. And I wasn't just going to check those towns, there's bound to be smaller shittier towns along the way that they didn't bother putting on the tourist map because they were boring. I doubt the Orks found those places any better than humans did. If they have half a brain, they'd realise what a hole those smaller towns really are."

"Ridiculous!" Sam scowled. "Have you ever been to a planet infested by Orks before?" She asked the sergeant.

"Yes, of course I have!" Barthees scoffed as if it was the stupidest question he had ever heard. "I was at the battle for Armageddon for three days…"

"Wow!" Marco looked wide-eyed at the sergeant. "You were at the battle for Armageddon? That's amazing! What's even more amazing is that you're alive! How did you survive?"

Barthees stroked his moustache as he reminisced. "I thought I was going to die so I decided that I might as well go out with a bang so to speak. And that's how I ended up at this end of the universe, on this backwater planet. I should be a corpse on Armageddon. I would have preferred it to being here with no pool balls."

A small vein began to pulse on Sam's temple. "Get over the damn pool balls! I - and I am certain I speak for Marco too – am not going to commit suicide just so you can play a stupid game."

Barthees began to search Sam's uniform, looking all over and around. "Oh, too bad Sam, I can't see anything besides your Private rank insignia. I guess that means you'll have to do as I say, since you don't out rank me. Maybe next time we get off of this planet you can ask for a promotion. Oh wait… I almost forgot. We aren't getting off of this planet."

Silence took over the room; Sam was looking at Barthees coldly, and Marco dared not breathe, fearing that Sam might explode if he did. Barthees just stood there with a smug grin, twirling the marker in his fingers.

Sam shot Marco a sideways glance; he instantly ran from his seat and hid behind a desk at the other end of the room.

"Aaaaaaaah!" Barthees flew backwards into a filing cabinet; he bounced off and lay on the floor with blood seeping out of his mouth, gripping his chest where Sam had kicked him. "Good lord you've got the strength of a Space Marine in those legs!"

Sam paced over to where the Sergeant lay; she put a boot on his head pressing his face sideways into the carpet. "Rank will do you little good down here unless you can convince me you're not going to get us killed."

"W-what she said!" Marco yelled out from behind the desk.

"Ow, ow… Sam that's my ear, do you mind? Ouch! OKAY! I'll revise the mission a little, how does that sound?"

"Very good, _sergeant_." Sam removed her boot from Barthees' head, and resumed her composed, impassive appearance. "I will be in the mechanics bay inspecting the sentinels for serviceability until such time as you want to re-brief us on the mission."

Marco peeked over the desk and watched Sam walk past. He looked back where Barthees was getting up, rubbing his ear. The private stood up and headed for the door. "I'll uh… be getting dinner ready."

"It better be a god damn banquet." The sergeant replied, but otherwise impartial to Marco excusing himself.

_An hour later._

Marco was standing at the top of a ladder in the store room looking for anything that looked relatively easy to cook. "Ew, dried liver? That's just gross. Liver's only good if it's fresh."

A rumbling noise came from the Mechanics bay which was connected to the store via a corridor. Curious, Marco carefully climbed down from the ladder and went to go see what the noise was.

He walked into the mechanics bay looking left and right for the source of the noise. A giant metal pad slammed down barely a meter in front of him with a loud clank. Marco stumbled backwards; when he looked up he found himself staring up the barrel of an exceptionally large laser cannon.

"Shit!" He cursed under his breath in fright. "Can you not do that!"

"Relax," Sam's voice crackled in Marco's radio headphones. "I was just doing an operational check. The armaments are not online, I can't shoot you even if I pulled the trigger."

"I was told by a very wise man never to trust safety features on a gun," Marco replied, too fear struck to move. "So please don't aim that at me!"

"Look, its fine." Sam spoke; Marco could here a vigorous clicking on his head set where Sam was pulling the trigger in the cockpit.

Marco dived out of the way even though the laser cannon remained inactive. "Thanks a lot," he said sarcastically. "I think I just… I'm going to go change my underwear. Excuse me."

"Oh… sorry, I didn't realise you had bladder problems." Sam apologised.

"I don't have a weak bladder…" Marco mumbled. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a date with Napisan."

Sam silently cringed; she wished she had just said sorry and left it at that. After Marco left the mechanics bay Sam turned the sentinel around and walked it back to its where it came from. She was about to turn it off, but as the bulkhead doors which lead to the ramp, she hesitated. No one had breached the surface since arrival; they didn't even know what the weather was like out there.

_Should I, or shouldn't I…_ She thought to herself. _I guess I better see if there's any bioscanners in the computer lab first. I don't fancy walking out into the middle of an Ork sentry party…_

Sam shut down the sentinel and jumped out. She took the elevator down to Level Two and headed straight for the computer lab.

Barthees nearly jumped out his seat when Sam rushed in. "Was the Commissar gracious enough to give us any equipment to enlighten us of what lay beyond the doors to the outside?" Sam asked.

Barthees looked up from his desk, a pen grasped in his hand as though he was ready to defend himself. "What?"

"Do we have any bio scanners!" Sam replied impatiently. "Or anything similar."

"Don't get your boxers in a twist," The sergeant answered. "Check those computers. If we have any such equipment, it'll be hooked up to those. Why do you want a bio scanner, anyway?" He looked at Sam suspiciously. "Are you going to go outside?"

Sam marched over to the computers and booted them (turned them on; not apply a size eight Imperial-approved combat boot to the tower). "So what if I am?"

"I don't care if you do, but just make sure no Orks see you, or get in. If they find out where we live, we're screwed." After a glare from Sam, Barthees continued. "This sector was reported as "relatively" Ork free. Not "completely" Ork free. You can never be too careful in this kind of situation."

Understanding the sergeant's request Sam nodded and sat down behind the computers. "I don't fancy our base being compromised, either."

It seemed that the Commissar obviously didn't want the base compromised, either. Sam thanked the heavens as she found multiple programs that would be useful for monitoring the outside and even the inside of the base – including bioscanners for all levels of the base and above ground with a proximity reading of a one kilometre radius. The private initiated an above-ground scan. Results flooded the screen, revealing that there were no Orks in the vicinity; only some cold-tolerant plants, funguses and a few small creatures.

Sam looked at the computer screen amazed. "This is incredible – I can't believe the sophistication of the equipment they gave us. I was expecting these kind of programs to be second-rate, if not non-existent."

"Uhn?" Barthees grunted not looking up from his writing pad.

"The scanners are able to detect Orkoid spores," She explained. "Inside and outside the base. Also… according to the computer, our air recycling system can filter out spores and other small particles from the air."

Barthees who wasn't listening mumbled, "Mm, sounds good."

"I'm going outside now." Sam left the computer running with the bioscanners active. She then left the computer lab and went back up the mechanics bay.

The ramp doors slid open ahead of Sam and the sentinel she was piloting. Snow fell though the gap onto the ramp; it was snowing outside; her tracks would be covered. The sentinel emerged from the ground, and as it exited the ramp the doors slid shut behind it. The doors looked like an odd rectangular patch of bare dirt; the snow had been pushed off when they had retracted. It would take a lot longer to cover such a large bare patch than some sentinel prints.

_We will have to be mindful of that,_ Sam thought as she observed the doors. _If an Ork saw that, who knows what they'd think…_

Sam's sentinel walked around the area; after circling the base, she walked it down a rocky path which led downhill.


	13. Bad Bowel Day

Chapta Twelve: Bad Bowel Day

**Chapta Twelve: Bad Bowel Day**

The toilets had never had so many visits than in the twelve hours after everyone ate Marco's three-course-disaster. Sam, Barthees and Marco were up all night with butt-wrenching diarrhoea. Barthees was by far the worst victim; thanks to Marco's countless sachets of wasabi paste, the sergeant also had the dreaded ring-of-fire complex.

Today, work was cancelled. They were all sick in bed, unable to do anything except run for the toilet when that uncomfortable pang came.

Barthees lay face-down on his bunk. "… have we got Vaseline anywhere?" He asked lifting his face out of his pillow. "I swear all the hair in my butt got crisped."

"There might be some in the medical bay," Sam replied from somewhere below; she was curled with the blankets pulled up over her head. "If there isn't any, I saw some bearing lubricant in the mechanics bay. It's non-toxic."

"Too late, he's already got one," Marco snickered. Despite his diarrhoea, he was the perkiest of the lot. He lay in his bunk reading a comic. "Oh, maybe there's a spare butt-hole amongst all the spare organs in the medical bay."

"Go search the medical bay for the Vaseline, you smart-arse!" Barthees grumbled. "Before I use _you_ for an arse-transplant."

Marco's bowels squelched uncomfortably; he threw his comic down. "Oh God, not again…" he jumped out of bed and ran for the toilet.

"Sam…" Barthees spoke silkily, but the private refused.

"No, get it yourself sergeant. My guts could give way at any moment." She said, pulling her blankets tighter.

As lunch time approached everyone was feeling hungry again. However, the fear of fuelling their bowels sparked a debate: to eat, or not to eat… That was the question.

"I… need… food…" Barthees spoke into his pillow. "Before I wither away to nothing and die."

"Honey-mustard baked beans actually makes my mouth water…" Sam replied; her stomach was cramping from hunger.

"Maybe we should eat cheese, or chocolate?" Marco suggested. "It might help to you-know, clump our poo."

"God Marco," Sam griped, "you don't have to be so descriptive. And besides, we don't have chocolate or cheese."

I got a better idea…" Barthees rolled onto his side. "Go fetch the baked beans, Marco. You can eat the first can – you can be the guinea pig."

"Oh… alright." Marco decided the risk was worth taking; maybe his guts would respond better to some baked beans.

He got up and walked to the mess hall to fetch a box of baked beans, three spoons and a can opener. The Imperial Guard no longer used cans with pull-tab lids because the seals had a tendency to open in transport.

When he got back to the dormitories he put the box down and opened a can; Marco shovelled the contents down like a starved dog. Everyone waited twenty minutes to see how it affected the private.

"How're you feeling?" Sam asked.

Marco was back in his bunk with his hands under his head, staring at the bunk above. "I feel okay," he replied. "No sudden gut pangs. Oh I think I need to fart though…"

Marco let rip.

"Twisted, evil mother of the warp!" Barthees buried his face back into his pillow and held his breath. "That sounded disgusting! I'll kill you if I even get a small whiff of that one."

"Oh dear…" Marco looked gritted his teeth. "Uh… I think I just -" Before the words had left his mouth, Sam and Barthees jumped out of their bunks and ran out of the room, hands over their mouths and noses. "-shat myself."

Barthees and Sam dared not think about eating again until dinner time. It had now been twenty four hours since they ate Marco's cursed cooking, and both showed signs of recovering. They sat wrapped up in blankets at a bench in the mess hall with two cans of baked beans sitting in front of them.

"We should be okay…" Sam said trying to convince herself nothing bad would happen. "… just as long as we don't fart _unless_ we're sitting on the toilet."

Barthees nodded in agreement. "And perhaps we should refrain from eating it too fast."

Prepared, they picked up their spoons and cautiously began eating. Their senses were pricked to detect any signs of bowel movement. When they got halfway through their cans they stopped to assess the situation.

"Stomach feels okay… no gas… hunger cramps, but nothing else." Sam concluded.

"My ring's not stinging either," Barthees added. "But maybe that's just because the nerve endings got destroyed."

Just as they picked up their spoons to finish their meal, Marco walked in. He looked rather worried. "Uh, guys… you know that bioscanner thing Sam found? Well… I was just in the computer lab and decided to check it out… I think there's Orks walking around outside. And the computer was doing all these weird things by itself."

The news didn't bother Barthees. "As long as they're out there, and we're in here, it doesn't matter."

"I think I'd like to see what the computer is doing at the least," Sam said standing up. "Why don't you get some food Marco, and meet me down at the computer lab. You'll just feel worse if you put off eating any longer."

Marco nodded understandingly and shuffled to the store room. Sam was walking out when Barthees emptied the last of his baked beans into his mouth and threw the can in the bin. "I suppose I'll come," he said. "There's nothing else to do."

The pair headed down to the computer lab; Marco arrived five minutes later with his baked beans. Sam sat at the computer observing the bioscanner and other programs.

"Ooh," Barthees said when he noticed there was a spy-cam and a voice recorder at work. "Turn up the volume of the voice recorder; I want to hear what they're saying."

Sam obliged. She also put the spy-cam's view onscreen. Unfortunately, the view was blocked by snow.

"Aw," Marco whinged at the snow. "I wanted to see what an Ork looked like."

"Don't be so eager," Barthees replied pulling his blanked tighter. "You'll get to see an Ork sooner or later – it's inevitable. And when you do, you'll severely wish you hadn't seen it – or them. Most likely them."

"Shut up!" Sam snapped. "I'm trying to listen to what they're saying."

Barthees quickly closed his mouth – he didn't want to get into another disagreement with Sam again. Marco was also wise enough to stop talking while they listened to the chatter of the Orks.

_"We're getting' close to da Deffskulls's territory, Gifrik."_

_"Well dis iz near where da uver ladz said dey killed dem Goffs. We'll fix any dat try'n' git to us by sneakin' frew da mountains. An' stop bein' a spineless git, if we meets any Deffskulls, we'll jus' kill 'em!"_

_"Dis rock is comfy, hur, hur."_

_"Shut up yew idiot. Yer dummer dan a squig!"_

_"I WANT FOOD!"_

_"Well gnaw yer 'and or somefin' Scrod. We aint got food."_

_"Oh, look, dere's a nice pile o' snow."_

_"Oi, Scrod! Turn de uver way; yer pants split open. Uurgh!"_

_"Dat's filfy!"_

_"Shud up! I jus' wanted ter eat da snow! Aint my fault da Gretchin can't stitch fer shit!"_

_"Yew can walk at da back so no one 'as ter look at yer ugly rear, hur, hur, hur."_

_"Fer once Datgur made uh inteligit suggestion, yeah."_

_"I always makes inteligit suggestions!"_

_"Sayin' dat yew shud 'ave a grot tied to yer legs jus' so dey c'n scratch yer feet when dey's itchy aint counted as inteligit. Snorting snow aint inteligit eiver."_

_"Hur, hur, it's cold…"_

_"Don't dat freeze yer boogers?"_

_"No, but yer get a runny nose. See?"_

_"Shove snow up dere again Datgur 'n' I'll open yer 'ead wiv me choppa! Hurr… alright yew lot, if yer need ta drop yer guts now's da time. Dis iz our last rest; we aint stoppin' after dis."_

_"Alrighty, Gif!"_

_"Go to de uver side, yew idiot! Nobody wants ter see what yer 'ad fer lunch."_

_"Yes Gif…"_

"Well… that was… gross." Barthees said, voluntarily turning down the volume.

"Oh, look, the snow is melting from the camera," Marco said pointing to the bottom of the computer screen where a portion of the camera window was visible behind other program windows.

Sam looked at the window; it wasn't snowed under anymore, but it certainly wasn't showing anything either. It looked like mud had covered the lens. "Is that… wait – oh, that's just revolting!" She pushed her chair away from the computer in disgust and closed the camera window. "One of the Orks just defecated on the camera!"

Marco rushed over to the nearest dust bin. His dinner gushed out in a fountain of beans. His first encounter of an Ork was its big green butt. Barthees had been right all along; Marco fully regretted ever seeing it.

That night Marco slept restlessly again. This time his dreams were filled with big green monsters who were flooding the world with their excretes. It wasn't exactly a pleasant dream, and he woke up sweaty and busting to o to the toilet.

After he came out of the toilet he decided to have a shower to make himself feel better. His bowels were no longer being disagreeable and he felt confident they could hold out for a nice long hot shower.

The bathroom was at the other side of the complex not far away from the starboard man-hole; Marco went back to his room to gather his things and headed over. He turned on the shower until steam was pouring out of the cubicle and spent the next half an hour under the hot water. After he finished, he put on his dressing gown and got out his razor; it had been two days since he last shaved and his chin was getting prickly. His moustache was also growing longer, and needed a trim.

"Doopey-doopey-doopey-doo…" Marco slid the razor over his foam-covered cheek. "Hmm, maybe I should grow a beard…"

A figure appeared out of the steam. "That would make you look stupid," Sam's voice spoke.

"Crikey!" Marco fumbled his razor, and looked up to see Sam's reflection in the partially fogged mirror. "Don't do that. I nearly cut myself. What are you doing here anyway? It's like three in the morning. And I wasn't asking for an opinion about growing a beard…"

"I like to have a shower when no one else is here," She replied casually. "And that is usually during the night or early morning. But it seems there is someone here."

Marco continued to shave his face, looking at Sam in the mirror. "Why are you looking at me like that? Geez, if you just give me ten minutes I'll be out of here…"

"You're not very good at washing clothes," Sam said holding Marco's undies up. "I can show you how best to use the clothes soaker and the bleach if you like."

"P-put those down!" Marco turned around and grabbed his undies from Sam; his was turning red faced from embarrassment. "Don't do scabbing through my clothes!"

"They were lying on the ground near the shower cubicles," Sam shrugged. "Would you rather if Barf found them?"

Marco looked confused. "Barf?"

"Barthees." Sam explained. "I've officially tagged him Barf because he stinks the toilets up so bad it makes me want to puke. And that was before we all got the runs…"

"Please, don't remind me," Marco replied with a cringe. "My eyes used to water at the smell…"

Marco finished shaving, packed his gear up and left the bathroom so Sam could shower in peace. He decided to write another entry in his journal before going to bed. He took his writing pad out of the pocket of his pyjamas and sat down at a bench in the mess hall.

_Dear Military Field Note Pad:_

_I am never cooking again. I think I am missing a layer of skin from my butt – it stings after having the runs from that stuff I made for dinner the other day. I don't think it's as bad as Barf's butt (Sam nick named Sergeant Barthees "Barf") though; he sort of seems to limp around. He doesn't like to sit either. Serves him right for forcing me to cook dinner though – I've always had my meals at the mess hall since I first joined the Imperial Guard. Even before then I never really had much experience… but oh well. I'm happy with eating cans of baked beans._

_All this writing about food and butts just brought yesterday's events flooding back – that was the most hideous sight I've ever seen! I won't spoil your pages by describing what I saw, but let's just say next time I see an Ork I hope it's his face I see. The image is burned into my retinas; every time I close my eyes all I see is… well yeah. Yuck. Filthy. I almost considered using bi-carb soda to wash my eyes out, even if it left me blind. I feel better after having that shower, but I would like to keep myself busy today to make sure my mind doesn't wander back to what I saw on that spy cam. I had nightmares from it – not that nightmares are unusual for me. I have them all the time; I'm a fragile person you know._

_Oh, yeah, the weirdest thing happened in the bathroom; I met Sam. Apparently she likes to shower in the early hours of the morning when no one else is there. It's obvious she must feel uncomfortable about other people seeing her in anything less than a uniform; it really made me wonder if she hasn't got hurt feelings, deep down beneath her tough appearance. I can only imagine what shit she's had to put up with over the years because of her condition. I remember she mentioned she wanted to be a space marine… and that even in the Imperial Guard she was never promoted and always sent on dangerous missions… I feel sorry for Sam._

_I wanted to ask her is she ever considered surgery, but that's way out of line; and it's a very personal thing. Hell, I'd help her pay for it if money was an issue and it made her feel better or something. Then maybe they'd let her into the Space Marines… she's good enough to be one in my opinion. She seems pretty switched on; she'd pass the psychology test easy. Unlike me…Man, I dreamed of being a Space Marine when I was a kid! And after putting all that effort into school, I got told by the Space Marine psychologist I'd be better suited to being a baby sitter. Oh well…_

_I have to stop writing now; I can hear the Sergeant yelling something excitedly. Maybe he found a cure for diarrhoea._

_Bye! From Marco. P. Fezz_

The sergeant's voice grew steadily louder as he ran up the hall whooping with glee. "I'm a friggin' genius! I'm a genius I tell you all! Whoo-hoo! Pool balls here I come!" He ran into the mess hall just as Marco put his journal away. "Oh here you are – well this explains why the lights are on – I'm a genius!"

"What's going on? Did you find some substitute balls?" Marco asked.

"I don't need substitute balls, I have a fine pair." Barthees hurried into the kitchen to fetch himself some coffee. He called out to Marco, "But I do believe I know where we can find some pool balls. It was in the note from that dongey-whacker all along."

Marco snickered; he had never heard the sergeant use such a strange word before. "Heh, heh… hmm, what do you mean it was in the note?"

"Just let me make my coffee, and I'll show you." Barthees whipped his coffee up in record time and slipped onto the seat next to Marco, slapping a book in front of him. "Look, this is a schematic of Level Three."

Marco looked at the picture; Level Three was the smallest floor in the underground complex. It consisted of two rooms, the lift, and three hallways. "Is that another bathroom?" Marco asked pointing to the room titled 'B'.

"No, no, that's a bomb store – not that we have any yet – look at the other room!"

"Pan?" Marco said confused. He looked to the key chart. "Oh! It's a panic room! Kinda like a bomb shelter, right? But how's that going to solve our pool table problem?"

Chugging down mouthfuls of coffee Barthees dug out a piece of paper from his pocket and threw it in front on Marco. "Read the note again," he explained in a rush.

"I don't think you should be drinking coffee right now…" Marco said picking up the paper and eyeing Barthees nervously; the sergeant was well and truly excited. "Don't PANIC, blah, blah, blah. Hmm, yeah, no I see why he wrote something that sounded so corny – it was a clue."

Barthees stood up, spilling some of his coffee on Marco. "Let's get Sam, load our guns, and get down there!"

"Ow! That's hot… what, guns? Why do we need guns? The panic room is in the base."

"A tiger never changes his stripes," Barthees said trying to sound philosophical. "I know what that bastard is like. You don't think it's going to be as easy as walking down there and picking up the pool balls, do you?"

Butterflies began to flap in Marco's stomach. "Maybe…"

"Maybe?" Barthees scoffed. He sculled the last of his drink and began to lecture Marco. "Kid, you're forgetting this is the man who built a three level underground base on this rotten planet, just so I can die here after living the rest of my life with an idiot and a hot chick who isn't actually a chick. He's the devil reincarnated into human flesh and blood. He's the essence of the warp. He's everything but nice. He's conniving, sadistic, and cruel. What the hell makes you think he'd just leave some pool balls in that panic room? That's about as likely as him leaving us his inheritance."

"If you knew what he was like then why'd you have to make him angry…" Marco spoke looking at the floor. He didn't dare look the sergeant in the eyes while he was in a ranting mood. Ranting sergeants had a tendency to get violent when you looked them in the eyes.

"How many times do I have to explain it? I thought I was going to DIE! I wasn't worried about making that bastard angry! I thought he'd be dead by the time he found out anyway." Barthees pointed a rigid finger at the door. "Now get dressed Private, we've got a panic room to raid! Meet me at the q-store, that flimsy las-pistol won't do much good on this planet."

"Yes sergeant…" Marco picked up his things and walked back to the dormitories.

Sam was walking down the hall when she saw Marco exit the mess hall; she ran to catch up with him. "Marco," she said in a low voice, "what was Barf ranting about? I could hear him when I was walking down the hall. Has he got another crazy plan?"

"Sort of," Marco replied, looking over his shoulder to make sure the sergeant wasn't following. "He thinks the pool balls are in the panic room on Level Three, and he wants us to get changed and meet him at the q-store to get issued new weapons. He thinks the panic room is trapped or something. God only knows what he thinks is down there."

Sam looked puzzled. "But, doesn't he know that I 'searched' down there? He's the one who told me to scour Level Three."

"Well, I also kind of think he knows you didn't actually do anything." Marco said with a wry smile. "He doesn't worry if you don't do as you're ordered. He prefers to yell at me instead."

"Oh well, I guess I'm just more assertive than you." She said with a shrug. "Let's get changed. I could do with a few more hours sleep, but that aint going to happen while the sergeant is fired up about the pool balls."

_Ten minutes later._

"Ah! Sam, I thought I heard your voice. Good, that means I don't have to go looking for you." Barthees inspected a shotgun before handing it to Sam along with ammo. "Take this, and these."

She accepted the weapon and stepped back to let Marco forward. "Do I get one of those too?" he asked. Marco had rarely handled anything larger than his las-pistol but he knew how to use most standard weapons… theoretically.

"Well, not quite." Barthees handed Marco something a little less powerful. "You can have a rapid fire lasgun instead. It doesn't matter it your aim's a little shitty, just keep the trigger pulled and you'll kill something eventually."

Marco looked disappointed as he took the weapon and the ammo. He was sad he didn't get a shotgun, but decided not to complain. "Yes sergeant."

Barthees opened up a long crate and pulled out a large weapon. "…and I'll take this beauty." He grinned as he put the strap over his shoulder. The weapon was a combi flame thrower and grenade launcher.

"What the hell do you expe-"

Sam was interrupted by Marco. "Don't ask, or you'll get a lecture like I did."

Everyone exited the q-store and the sergeant locked the door. He led the way to the central elevator; it was the only one of the three elevators which went down to Level Three. When they stepped out into the hall they felt the chill.

"Is that the panic room door there?" Marco asked pointing to a reinforced steel door.

"No, that's one of two containment doors." Barthees replied and walked over to the door; it scanned his eye and the door slip up. "It will only open if it scans one of our eyes."

They walked through, and this time Sam opened the door with an eye scan. Beyond the last containment door they could see the Panic room's door. It looked similar to the containment doors, only it was covered in large metal spikes.

"That looks so cool," Marco said walking up to the door. "I want to open the door this time."

Sam and Barthees looked hesitant; they waited behind the containment door threshold. Both felt a little suspicious about the spiked door.

"Be careful Marco," Sam warned. "Don't get your eye poked out or something."

Having a rapid fire gun made Marco feel more confident. He stood in front of the door and the scanner flashed in his eyes.

Suddenly a red light flashed on the roof; the containment door slammed down and the spiked door began to slide towards Marco.

"Aaaaaaaaaaaah! Shit! Open the door!" He ran back to the containment door, screaming to be let out flailing his limbs like an octopus being electrocuted.. "Open the bloody door!"

Sam stood in front of the scanner again; it took what felt like a millennium for the scanner to respond and scan her eyes. To Marco's relief the spiked door stopped and reversed. The containment door also opened, and Marco flew through. "I am not doing that again!" He whimpered.

"The scanner probably made an error when it read your iris," Sam explained. "You have to stand very still when your eyes are being scanned."

"Fine," Marco replied shakily. "You go and try it. I don't want to risk becoming a kebab again."

If she was scared or nervous Sam didn't show it. She walked over and stood still while her eyes were scanned. To everyone's relied, the spikes retracted and the door slid open.

Sam walked in and signalled for the others to follow. "Come on, before it closes or something."

Barthees grabbed Marco by the arm and forced the private to walk into the panic room. Once all three were in, a few seconds later the door closed; they heard the spikes extend again.

"Well, at least we know not to let Marco open the doors." Barthees joked. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it with the end of his flame thrower. "I wanted to save these for special occasions, but my brain hurts for nicotine right now."

"I guess even the sergeant can have his nerves tested," Marco whispered to Sam.

The room was long and rectangular; it appeared to be almost completely bare except for a tap for water and a box labelled '24 hour rations'. Spotting the crate, Barthees ran over and ripped the lid off. He emptied the contents on the floor only to look very disappointed.

"Dammit, there really was only rations there. Where the hell could the balls be?" He wondered aloud.

Marco grinned; he walked over and patted Barthees on the shoulder. He decided now was a good time to be assertive like Sam had mentioned. "Sarge, do you really think he'd put them in a crate? You have to think like the Commissar. Think conniving, sadistic and cruel. Remember that lecture?"

Unfortunately Barthees didn't take Marco's assertiveness too well; he turned around and poked Marco's stomach with the barrel of his combi weapons. "Call me 'sarge' one more time private and you'll be wishing you were out there with them Orks."

Marco held up his hands defensively. "Heh, heh… I was just trying to cheer you up…"

"Sarcasm doesn't cheer me up sonny, it pisses me off!" Barthees yelled spraying spittle over Marco's face.

"Sergeant," Sam nodded her head over her shoulder towards the rear wall. There was another door and a piece of paper stuck to it. "Look."

Forgetting Marco Barthees ran over and snatched the paper from off the door. He unfolded it and read it eagerly.

Congratulations, you have managed to get yourself locked inside the panic room. I hope you are wearing your cold weather jackets… otherwise you'll be freezing your balls off. It's a bit chilly outside, you know. Up here in the mountains and all that. There is still hope, however; there's a small ruined resort not far away. Perhaps the Orks will be kind enough to rent you a room for a night.

See you there, then? Well maybe not, I don't need to go to a resort to have a spa bath.

Barthees re-read the message several times over. "Locked inside the panic room..." He muttered. "Sam, see if you can open the door."

Sam walked over to the entrance and waited for the door to scan her eye; but nothing happened. She looked around but saw nothing. "Sergeant… I can't see a door handle or a scanner."

Barthees cursed beneath his breath; he pulled the base manual out from his pocket and flicked it open to the page which had information about the panic room. What he read confirmed his fears. "…The panic room cannot be opened from the inside. The panic room has a three kilometre escape tunnel which leads to the outside in case any personnel accidentally get stuck inside the panic room by accident, or, if personnel need to evacuate the premises."


	14. Mokka’s New Apprentice

Chapta Firteen: Mokka's New Apprentice

**Chapta Firteen: Mokka's New Apprentice**

Barely one quater of Uurgrin's boys remained; the rest had died, and lay scattered on the ground growing fungus. Those who were left alive had recovered from most of their wounds and were inspecting the damage to their settlement. If it wasn't for their sheer tenacity, the Snakebite tribe would have been obliterated.

"Is it even werf rebuildin'?" Ongrat muttered to Orlen. Inside the walls, everything was reduced to ashes. The Snakebites huts were built mostly from wood and mud. The only structures left even partially standing was the Mek shop and the brewery.

Uurgrin walked up and put a large hand on each of the Orks' shoulders. "We won, dat's wot matters. Once I 'eard yer plan Orlen, I knew dere wouldn't be no rebuildin'. We'll salvage wot we can, an' 'ead fer Squigopolis. Den, once we've 'ad some beer an' spent some teef, we'll find somewhere else ter live."

Rebuildin' wasn't the only thing plaguing Uurgrin's mind. He knew that the Goffs had by no means sent their real force. Not a single Goff vehicle was seen at the battle; something their clan would be regretting right about now.

"We gots ter move soon lads," Uurgrin spoke in a lower voice so he wouldn't be overheard. "Da Goffs' might show up once dey realises dere boys got blown up. Dey underestimated us Snakebites, and once dey realise dat, yew can bet yer teef dey'll want ter croak us fer sure. I ain't a coward, but I ain't stupid 'nough ter fink we c'n win anuver battle wivout all diein' in da process."

Ongrat felt a tugging on his pants making his cow bells jingle slightly. He looked around and saw Cezzy-Po looking at him with a stupid grin.

"Can I pierce yer ears for ya?" She asked with a slight quiver. "I noticed yer old ones healed after yer hoops got ripped out." Cezzy-Po ended her sentence with her high-pitched squeal-laugh. "Hee hee hee!"

"'Ow long've yew been standin' dere?" Uurgrin asked eyeing the Dok suspiciously.

She shrugged, replying "I dunno, a few minutes I guess."

"Oi!" A loud shrill voice called from across the wreckage to the four Orks. "Someone come 'ere. I need a hand gettin' me bike outta da pit! Da snakes still seem ter be wrigglin'."

Cezzy-Po ignored her sister and held up five silver hoop earrings for Ongrat to see. "I found 'em near where yew was fightin', an' where yer jumped from da wall."

Orlen took one of the silver hoops from Cezzy to take a look. "Yaw a creepy Dok, ya know dat? Hur, hur." He handed it back. "Jus' don't go pokin' holes in Ongrat's 'ead; that part ov 'im is useful at least."

"Don't be a wise arse Orlen," Ongrat narrowed his eyes and glared at the Mek. "Or I'll turn yew into a squig."

A charred rock flew across the settlement and hit Uurgrin in the head. "Orlen! Go get dat git's bike 'fore I break 'er neck!" He growled, and walked off saying over his shoulder, "I'm gonna go an' round up da boys. We're leavin' as soon as we can."

Orlen agreed, and walked through the rubble to pull out Brudz' bike. He wanted to test his new hands out on something heavy to see what they were capable of.

Cezzy jingled the earrings to get Ongrat's attention again. "Fine," he said, and sat down where he stood. "Yew can pierce me some new earrin' 'oles."

"Shtabby bits!" Cezzy hissed excitedly, fumbling through her pockets for a needle. "Don't yew worry, I got a good hand wiv a needle, hee hee!"

_Somewhere south-east of the Snakebite's settlement, beside the __Gorfang__River__._

Goffs hated several things: Orks who stood back shooting their guns instead of getting in the thick of a battle with a choppa, Orks who weren't Goffs, bright ridiculous clothes, and being made fools of. Kargust, Waaghboss of the southern Goffs tribe, boasted loathing these things more than any other Goff in his clan. Anyone who said otherwise was soundly beat unconscious.

The giant Goff boss stood watching the horizon from a watch tower mounted on the walls to his settlement while drinking his morning keg of fungus beer. He was expecting his raiding party to be back in a day or so, after having cracked every last head of the Snakebite tribe in the north. Or at least that was how he had planned it.

After finishing his beer he climbed back down; the sentries returned to their now vacated tower. Kargust was the epitome of a true Goff; he refused to carry even a small shoota, instead he armed himself with a huge spiked mace and a mega-claw which had a flame-thrower attachment on his right hand. Kargust's fingers, fore arms, shins, and back were dotted with metal studs giving him a very brutish appearance. He wore a helmet with two long curved demon horns attached to the front, and a row of metal spiked ran from front to back; he enjoyed ramming his opponents with his extremely 'killy' helmet. The Waaghboss' clothes were all black, from his thick steel-toed boots to his sleeveless leather jacked. His belt was also studded with metal spikes; it was a very wide belt, which wrapped around his abdomen. Kargust was renowned for his savagery in battle; his fearsome fighting abilities made most other Goffs look like half-hearted battlers in comparison. It was the combination of his brutality and his barbaric appearance which earned him the title 'Kargust da Black Dragon' by his fellow Goffs.

Despite Kargust's optimism and pleasure, there were members of his tribe who were less than pleased with current events - no one dared breath a word of their displeasure to the Boss however, and knew it was best to just let Kargust do as he wished. Kargust had ordered that all vehicles remain behind, staunchly believing that his lads were more than capable of killing the Snakebites without them. All but the actual war bikers and truck drivers liked the plan; the wheeled killers moped around the settlement crabbily. What made most of the Goffs discontented was not that their vehicles were banned from battle, but a temporary alliance their Waaghboss had made with another clan's tribe.

Kargust entered his hut where his largest and most favoured Nobs had gathered, playing a game of cards. The air was thick with cigar smoke, the smell of roasted squig and alcohol.

He sat down at the table. "Deal me in ladz," he said, and pulled out a bag of teeth to wager with.

His Nobs obliged, dealing out a new round of cards. Kargust rarely played cards for simple pleasure; he usually used the opportunity to talk to his Nobs to gather the gossip and find out if anyone in the tribe needed putting in their place (if they hadn't already been). Kargust wasn't entirely oblivious to the fact not everyone liked his alliance, and kept his ear to the ground in case there was any problems.

"You know why I'm 'ere, ladz." The Waaghboss announced casually while lighting up a cigar. "Fill me in."

Shrettis, a mega Nob, nodded to his Boss. "Nuffin' much 'as changed wiv da war bikers an' trukkers, boss. Dey're still sulkin' about like lost Snotlings, hur, hur. Dey'll get over it soona or later. Dey jus' needs a good fight, yeah."

"Well dey c'n fight as long as dey don't go causin' a huge ruckus in da camp," Kargust replied picking up a card. "Remind 'em dat da pit is fer crackin' 'eads open. Da pit'll keep da rest ov da ladz entertained, too."

The 'pit' was where the Orks could fight 'official' brawls; it was different to fighting anywhere else because you had a large audience who witnessed whether you won or lost (or died!). There was a definite winner and the loser in the pits; none of the nonsense about 'ties' or acts of cowardice resulting in an Ork possibly fleeing an unfinished fight. Once you were in the pit, you stayed there until you, or your opponent, were dead or unconscious. The pit also provided a chance for the spectators to bet their teeth; an Ork could make quite a profit if he knew the combatants well enough. Anyone and everyone was allowed to use the pit, but Gork forbid if you get carried away and tried picking on an Ork bigger than yourself...

Kargust purposefully lost a few matches to soften his Nobs up with a few extra teef for their pockets; doing so would make it a little easier to get their gobs flapping - although they were in his inner circle, some of them still required a little extra persuasion. Once he had sufficiently lubricated the mouths of a few certain Orks with some teeth, he then continued to quiz the Nobs.

"What's dis I 'ear about some of me Goffs whingin' about da alliance wiv Gilb-Rer?" Kargust hadn't actually heard anything, but lying was sometimes the best way to get the truth. If some of the Goffs really had been complaining, he wanted to know.

Several of the Nobs glanced up from their cards. Dyakka was an old scarred Nob; he chewed thoughtfully on his cigar looking for the right words. Kargust was surprisingly patient and waited for Dyakka to reply.

"Dere 'as been a few big-moufed gits, boss, but me an' da uver Nobs gave 'em a few lessons ov 'and-ter-'and fightin' dat dey won't forget." Dyakka looked Kargust briefly in the eyes before looking back at his hand of cards. "We'll let yer know if it looks like dere'll be a mutiny, Black Dragon."

A pleased growl rumbled from Kargust's throat. Only those privileged enough were allowed to call Kargust 'Black Dragon' to his face - and it gave him great satisfaction when they did. It was an ego thing.

"Don't show any of da ladz mercy," he spoke. "If any ov 'em try anyfin' funny I want ter know, an' I want ter see dere 'ead on a spike. Gilb-Rer may be our ally, but dat's only fer da moment. I want me boyz poised ter fight 'im, not us, fer da mean time. Dat Snakebite's as slippery as 'is pet serpents. 'Ee's also got da tongue of one, too. He'll only be our 'friend' while we're stronger den 'im. Da boyz may not completely understand why I chose ter form da alliance, but yew lot do. In uver words, I want any rebels dealt wiv - if da tribe's split, Gilb-Rer wouldn't waste a second ter take advantage ov it an' start a fight. As much as we all love ter fight, right now, I got bigger fights planned - an' I don't want Gilb-Rer to slow me down or git in me way."

All the Nobs agreed; some nodding with approval, others snarling at the thought of Gilb-Rer back stabbing the Goffs. The tension was soon relieved when Kargust stood up. "C'mon boyz, let's all go to da pub an' 'ave a few social drinks wiv da rest ov da boyz."

The Nobs all put down their cards and followed Kargust outside. The pub was not far away; it was in the centre of the north half of the settlement, with the brewery beside it. A large mass of huts lined the east side of the camp opposite the pub where most of the Goffs lived; a kitchen and 'gatherin' area' (somewhere for the Orks to mull about and where they could sit on proper stools) were wedged in between. Behind the pub was another set of huts where the Stormboyz lived. Most Stormboyz preferred to live separate from the rest of their Goff brethren so as to be able to follow a more militaristic life style without needing to throttle the other Orks. They didn't like being kept up at all hours of the night; Stormboyz had a strict curfew and liked it that way.

This afternoon, a musically orientated Ork by the name Glof was entertaining the mob at the pub with his electric guitar; he was accompanied by two Gretchin who played a drum set and an electric banjo. Kargust and his Nobs took seats at the back of the pub and listened to Glof's song titled 'My Mistake' - it was a song about a large Ork who always had a plumber's crack, and often got mistaken for a squiggoth. Like many of Glof's songs, it was riddled with swearing and was screamed rather than sung.

'Fetch me some roasted squig,' Kargust ordered a nearby Gretchin, and threw the runt a tooth. 'Make sure it's nice an' joocy.'

'Sure fing, Boss,' The Gretchin replied and scuttled away into the crowd.

A few minutes later, the Gretchin came back with a large fat squig skewered on a stick; it was still sizzling hot and the aroma made many of the Nobs mouths' water. The Gretchin was thrown many more teeth, and went to fetch more roasted squigs for Kargust's hungry Nobs.

Feeling the need to probe his Orks for information, Kargust turned around on his stool to face as table of smaller Ork boyz. He ripped a piece of meat off of his roast squig and leaned forward slightly.

If an Ork ever asks you if you're feeling lucky, ninety-nine percent of the time you should feel scared; or at least conscious of the fact he probably wants to kill you.

'So ladz, yer feelin' lucky today?' Kargust asked with a mouthful of meat.

The Orks looked a little cautiously at Kargust; after deciding this was one of those one-percent moments where no life is in danger, they grinned and nodded.

'Yeah, I feel lucky Boss,' One of the boyz spoke grinning slightly. 'I won twenty teef today at da pit.'

'An' I got shat on by a bird!' A scrawny Ork yoof replied excitedly, breathing like a hyperventilating rabbit. 'Eh-Heh! Heh! Heh! Heh! Heh!'

The Ork sitting beside the yoof sneered. 'Dat's not lucky, dat's just gross.'

'Now, now, per'aps dat bird shit woz a lucky fing fer dat lad,' Kargust said dragging his stool closer to the table.

The yoof shrunk as Kargust's gaze fell on him. 'Er her...' the yoof muttered nervously.

Kargust realised that something was a little odd about the yoof; he leant closer, and the boyz backed away enough so they didn't touch the Boss. The Yoof was wrapped from head-to toe in black cloth, with only his eyes and fingers visible. Although a strange habit, this was not what had been bugging the Boss. Kargust stared at the runty Ork with a puzzled look until he realised what made the Ork seem unusual. There were little glowing blue drops of waagh essence in the corner of the yoof's eyes.

'Yew idiots!' He yelled straightening his back and glaring at the boyz around the table. ''Ow long 'as dis lad been wiv us? What? Five years or so? An' yew didn't noticed?'

Too scared to runaway the boys quivered beneath their Boss's stern look. 'S-Sorry Boss... but... realised what, exactly...?' One of the boyz quivered.

The young Ork tried to flee, but two of boyz grabbed him and forced him to sit back down on his stool; he shook nervously, babbling 'Uuuur! No-no-no-no-no-no! Oh no-no-no-no-no...'

'So,' Kargust spoke in a deadly quiet voice, 'It seems dis runt prob'ly knew about his psychic powers a lot sooner dan we did. Huuuur...'

Total silence engulfed the pub; every Ork was looking at the table where Kargust sat. Even Glof had stopped playing his music. The yoof's eyes looked stunned, but also relived. No body noticed however, and Kargust went on to lecture the Orks in the pub.

'Yer lucky _I_ noticed b'fore da whole camp went up in blue smoke!' Kargust said raising his voice and looking around at everyone. 'Weirdboy's are dangerous unless dealt wiv properly! Dis one's been roamin' unchecked for fer about four years in dis camp! We're GOFFS! We fight like no uver clan, an' what 'appens when a Weirdboy's exposed ter that kinda excitement? 'EE GETS ALL SPARKY! Sparky is BAD! Especially fer a yoof 'oo aint got a clue how ter deal wiv it!'

When an Ork with psychic abilities was discovered he was thrust into a whole different life style due to his volatile state of mind. He was to forever wear bells to announce his presence wherever he went, and was to always be with a group of Minders. He was also forced to live in a separate community away from the majority of the boys to help prevent their rowdiness from causing the Weirdboy to build up too much waagh energy. Some Weirdboys dealt with the change quite well, while others loathed it; it truly depended on the individual Ork how they reacted.

"What's dis ladz' name?" Kargust asked one of the Ork boyz.

"Dat's Ilgil, Boss."

"Yer really _are_ a lucky Ork today, Ilgil..." Kargust also felt quite lucky - having a free-roaming Weirdboy in the Tribe would help to prevent large fights; it would be less effective letting his elder Weirdboy loose as all the Orks knew he was good at keeping his powers on a tight leash and would be less careful around the Weirdboys Nob. But letting the yoof run around would be like giving a monkey a loaded gun - the Orks would be too frightened to set off Ilgil's awesome power, and refrain from doing anything that might cause any sudden surges of power in Ilgil.

"Fer da moment, yew can live as yer always have - provided yer wear da bells." The Boss explained. "Yew've done a good job ov hidin' yer powers so far, so I'll let yer keep yer freedom - fer now."

Distracted by the sudden exposure of another Weirdboy, Kargust forgot about informally interrogating the boyz. Instead, he told them to take Ilgil to the Weirdboy hut and familiarise him with the Tribe's older Weirdboy, Mokka, and get the yoof some bells for his clothes. Shortly after Ilgil and the group of boyz left the pub, Kargust went back to his hut; the Nobs stayed back to drink some more beer and listen to Glof's entertaining songs.

The Boss walked up a spiral staircase to his personal quarters. The room overlooked the camp; the windows were covered with mesh and made the room dark despite the exposure to the sun. Kargust stood looking through the mesh at the hills in the distance; beyond those, he imagined his loyal Goff warriors scavenging through the remains of his enemy at Uurgrin's camp to the north-west. Once the Goffs were back, Gilb-Rer would then fulfil his end of the bargain (or be punished).

On the opposite side of the river a small huddle of huts stood on stilts; they were set far aside from any buildings. The closest being the Mek shop and the pit (the first Ork to found the settlement wasn't very bright). Despite the proximity to the pits, the Weirdboy enclave rarely experienced any problems - and those problems that did arise were usually the Minders going on a bit of a psychotic rampage.

The boys shoved Ilgil up the ramp and inside the hut which was situated in the middle of the other huts. A dark shadow loomed at the back of the hut.

'What's the racket?' A deep voice asked from within the hut. A pair of gleaming eyes looked at the intruders.

'Boss said ter get yer ter meet Ilgil,' The boys explained and shoved the yoof forward further inside the hut. 'It's been discovered dat da runt's a Weirdboy, like yerself.'

Mokka stepped forward into the light to inspect the short Ork wrapped in black cloth. 'Why didn't I sense yer power b'fore?' He asked with a slight sneer.

Ilgil looked Mokka up and down; the Weirdboy was huge. Ilgil had seen him around, but made it a priority to avoid him. Despite Mokka's age and size, he was relatively free of scars and dressed rather fanatically for a Goff. From his ears hung cow bells - the weight of the bells had stretched the Orks' pointed ears over time so they looked like elongated puppy ears. Two rows of studs began at the outer edge of his eyebrows following the contour of his brow until the stud rows met and ran parallel down to the tip of his snout. He hung a large obsidian nose ring from the centre of his nose and had replaced his bottom row of teeth with Obsidian replicas. Mokka wore a robe made from black cloth - the hood drooped over his back lazily, and chains wrapped around his torso. The ends of the chains dangled from random places; half ended with more cow bells. Beneath his robes, the Weirdboy's arms, hands, legs and feet were wrapped in grey cloth - it used to be white but was rarely cleaned. The most noticeable of all Mokka's features were his black tattoos which had been applied to his face; the Weirdboy looked as if his mascara was running like a tap from his eyes. Tattoos were forbidden in the Goff clan, but no one dared try to tell Mokka what he could and could not do. Even Kargust merely begrudged the Weirdboy, but never formally told him to remove the tattoos.

"Never mind," Mokka huffed and walked around Ilgil and stood in the doorway with his back to the Orks. "Da last Weirdboy apprentice ov mine died coz 'ee couldn't control 'iz powers. If yew turn out ta be as crappy, I'll defecate on yer corpse when yer 'ead explodes."

Ilgil cringed beneath his rags; he had never spoken to Mokka before. The master Weirdboy's frank and crude expressions left the yoof feeling very meagre indeed.

"I need some bells an' I c'n leave..." The yoof mumbled. "Boss said I c'n run around wivout Minders for a while or somefin'..."

Mokka twisted around and looked unpleasantly down at Ilgil. "Wheneva yer talk to me runt, yew'll address me prop'ly. Me name's Mokka, but yew 'ave ter call me Masta Mokka. I'll call yew whateva tickles me fancy. Got dat, runt?"

The yoof rolled his eyes and turned around to face Mokka. "Yes, Masta Mokka..."

"Watch yer manners," Mokka snarled detecting a slight sarcastic tone from Ilgil. "Or I'll show yer why I's da only Weirdboy left in dis clan!"

"Er, Mokka, could yew pleeze give da runt some bells..." One of Ilgil's escorts asked. "We'll take 'im outta yer way once we get da runt prop'ly marked as a Weirdboy."

Mokka glared angrily at Ilgil a moment longer before he pushed his way through the Orks to get to the side of his hut. He opened a dented old metal chest, and pulled out a bundle of chains and cow bells.

"C'mere, runt." Mokka ordered.

Ilgil walked over and stood beside the chest. Mokka sized the yoof up, and pulled a small wad of chains and bells from the heap. "Runts are weak," he muttered. "Pro'bly break yer neck wiv dese…"

He wrapped some chains around Ilgil's waist like a belt, and clipped cowbells to it. "When - if - yer get bigga, yew'll 'ave more chains an' more bells. Till den, yew wears dis - always. If I catches yer wivout ev'ry one of dem bells an' chains, I'll flog yer hide raw. Don't care if dey make it hard ter walk, or irritate yer, a Weirdboy must always 'ave 'is bells."

After being fitted with his chains and bells Ilgil left the hut. He walked away followed by the Ork boyz; Minders looked through the windows and doors of their huts as the group walked out, some squinting their eyes as if to take a better look. Very rarely did the Weirdboy enclave get visitors.

Once outside the perimeter of the Weirdboy huts the Orks disbanded, leaving Ilgil to himself. The yoof had once been close to the gang, but now it was obvious none of them wanted to have anything to do with Ilgil. It wasn't that they disliked the small Ork, but the fear of being turned into a squig in the middle of the night or having mushrooms sprout from their ears made the boyz wary.

Ilgil smirked; it suited him fine. The less attention he got from the other his peers, the better - or so he surmised. The yoof thought his deepest darkest secret had been exposed back at the pub, but thankfully, only his second deepest most darkest secret had been revealed. The Weirdboy never wanted anyone to know that he was actually a Weird_girl_.


	15. Zugzwanged

Chapta Fawteen: Zugzwanged

**Chapta Fawteen: Zugzwanged**

_Say of Da Day: "__I love my ev'ryfin'!" – Orlen, Snakebite Mek._

The sun was rising above the horizon lighting the desert up in a warm pale glow. A line of Orks stretched out across the flat red land – the Snakebites and the four Evil Sunz were on their way to Squigopolis: a large inland Ork town renowned for its squigs. The town was often referred to as the "Squig Capital" of the land.

The Evil Sunz Orks had decided to tag along with the Snakebites. Not that they had much choice in the matter; all the fuel was used in the making of the bomb, and no one had thought to filch the map before the settlement went up in flames. And there was no way to fix the vehicles since most of the equipment in the Mek shop had been destroyed or damaged. Brudz' tool box, which had been salvaged from her bike wreck, did not contain the many spare parts her bike and the wartrakk would need to become operational once again.

Ongrat plodded along; his mouth stretched open in a lazy yawn. His ears were once again decorated with shiny silver hoops; Cezzy-Po still walked beside Ongrat, admiring her handy work.

'Dey look very nice…' She said, dribbling slightly. 'Shiny…'

Her sister flicked her on the temple. 'Shut yer yap-ole an' keep pullin'!' Brudz was on Cezzy's other side.

The sisters had a rope each over their shoulders. They were dragging Brudz' bike along behind them - it was barely recognisable as a bike, bit it still managed to creek along on one bent wheel.

A small squealing animal came running past Cezzy-Po and Brudz; it was Squiggy version 1.3 – surprisingly, the experimental squig had survived the explosion. It had been found wedged in a compartment of Brudz' bike when it was pulled out of the snake pit. No one was sure how it ended up there. The squig's back had been burnt, so Cezzy-Po fixed it up with bits from the dead Orks. She grafted new skin onto its back, and also attached a hand. Cezzy suspected the previous owner of the hand didn't like having the hand attached to a squig's back, as the beast was constantly running around with the middle digit raised. Some Orks found it offensive, but most found it rather amusing.

"Squiggy!" Cezzy-Po yelled out to her pet lovingly. "C'mere, boy."

The beast ambled over excitedly to his master. He jumped up like a dog trying to climb Cezzy's leg; the hand was still giving the finger.

"I fink it'll take a while for Shquiggy ter get used ta 'is new appendage." Cezzy said looking down at her pet. "Ee's got problems wiv dat 'and…"

"Nah, ee's just fine," Brudz said with a snigger. "Can I 'ave one like 'im? I'll tie it to da back of me bike, har har har…"

"We need a Dok 'oo can fix beasts…" Ongrat mumbled. The Snakebite Weirdboy wasn't very good at socialising.

Cezzy-Po went from being a border-line dazzled manic to being extensively mentally haemorrhaged after hearing Ongrat's words; she was grinning from ear-to ear exposing almost every tooth, gum and fungal infection in her mouth. She even forgot to breathe after a burst of rapid giggles, and her nostrils were flared. She even started to convulse.

"I hate you Ongrat," Brudz growled, trying to punch her sister off cloud-nine. "Me sister becomes more retarded ev'ry time she 'angs around yew. She must be allergic ter Weirdboys."

Ongrat smirked. "I 'as dat effect on certain Orks, hur, hur, hur…" He was enjoying annoying Cezzy's younger sister.

Jamz bellowed out from behind. "Oi! I wants a break! I'm sick've walkin'! Yew got any idea 'ow 'eavy dis armour makes me legs?"

Uurgrin, who was up the front of the horde, gave the order to stop; the pack slowly came to a halt, gathering in a rough circle. Jamz was one of the last Orks to join the mob; he came lumbering over to the group slowly. He sat down with a thump, and a cloud of dust billowed upwards. Several of the other Nobs also sat down to take a break.

"We can't rest fer too long, boyz," Uurgrin announced as all the Orks settled down. "Once da Goffs realise dere raid failed, dey'll be very busy lookin' fer us."

Brudz lay down beside her bike to catch a few minutes nap. She left Cezzy-Po to her own devices.

"Do yer want a tattoo?" Cezzy asked Ongrat. "I's real good at tattooin'!"

"No fanks." Ongrat replied, looking about for someone. He eventually spotted Orlen and made a dash for the Mek when he thought Cezzy-Po wasn't watching.

"Bloody 'ell Orlen, yew leave me wiv dem crazy red-ragged rabid Orks again an' I'll make yer eyes pop outta ya head!" He said hiding behind the Nob. "Did she follow me?"

Orlen looked about confused. "Did 'oo follow yer?"

"Yer want a tattoo? I's real good at tattooin'!" Cezzy stood in front of Orlen revving a tattoo gun; it looked suspiciously like an electric tooth brush which had its brush head exchanged for giant needles.

"Uh… maybe anuver time." Orlen replied eyeing the tattoo gun nervously. "Put dat fing away, will yer?"

The Dok obliged, and tucked her tattoo gun away; she then pulled out another pointy instrument from a different pocket and zipped around Orlen so she could talk to Ongrat. "Yer want a piercin'? I's real good at stabbin' holes!"

Ongrat gave shrieked in surprise as the Dok appeared in front of him with her medical instruments poised to stab something. "Go away! I don't want anymore 'oles in me dan I's already got!"

"Okay… but… 'ow 'bout a tattoo?" Cezzy-Po didn't seem ready to give up just yet.

"Yew already asked me dat!" Ongrat replied exasperated. "Why yer bein' all weird? I'm da Weirdboy, I's da one dat's meant ter be strange. Did yer get a piece ov shrapnel in yer 'ead?"

"What do yer expect, Ongrat?" Orlen said looking over his shoulder. "Dey don't call 'em 'Mad Doks' 'coz dey is sane, do dey? An' she's a girl. All girls are odd."

"What da 'ELL iz DAT supposed ter mean?" Cezzy yelled, rounding on Orlen. "Yew want me ter cut dose 'ands off again?"

Orlen jumped to his feet and raised his hands in the air. "Yew aint getting' dese, I needs 'em!"

There was a few moments of prickly silence; a slither of waagh essence squeaked out of Ongrat's butt breaking the tension slightly. "Er… my bad." He said looking away embarrassed.

"Better in dan out, dat's more 'n' true in yaw case, aye, Ongrat? Hur, hur, hur!" Orlen laughed at his friend. He always found Ongrat's farts amusing.

Cezzy-Po took great offence to Orlen teasing Ongrat, and went all-out schizophrenic. She took out two scalpels and twirl them trough her fingers like a martial artist.

"Aaah!" Orlen fled; he had seen with his own eyes only the day before how skilled (or rather how evil) the Dok was with her stabby medical instruments. "No, pleeze, I woz jokin'! Don't dissect me! I love my ev'ryfin'!"

Orlen barged a path through the Orks to get away from the Dok; Cezzy-Po flew after him screaming incoherent noises. She flung razor blades like ninja stars; two stuck in the back of Orlen's head stinging him like wasps, but most either bounced off his fur or found other targets.

"If yew kill me, or cut me 'ands off, I can't 'elp fix yer sistah's bike!" Orlen protested, coming to a halt in front of a large rock, and turned to face the Dok. The other Snakebites were too worried about their own hides or enjoying the spectacle to bother trying to help the clan's Mek.

"She don't need yer 'elp ter fixsh dat bike, she's quite capable of doin' dat 'ershelf!" The Dok pointed a scalpel threateningly at Orlen; her excessive lisp indicated she was thoroughly pissed off and excited. Seeing blood had that effect on her. "Sho, Orlen, what shall I cut off firsht?"

"Wait! Wait!" Brudz came running through the mob of Orks and skidded to a halt in front of Orlen, with her arms open wide. "Don't 'urt 'im!"

Cezzy-Po looked at her sister bewildered. Orlen was just as surprised. "Yew came ter save me?" He whimpered gratefully.

"What?" Brudz' face screwed up with amusement. "Oh, yeah, I did."

"Why do yer wanna save dis incredibly maddenin' lump ov fat?" Cezzy-Po asked her sister.

"It aint fat, it's muscles!" Orlen protested. After being glared at again by Cezzy-Po he muttered, "okay, so maybe it's 'alf 'n' 'alf…"

"Da reason I came ter save Orlen iz coz I learnt many fings from 'im in da short time we've been wiv da Snakebites." She explained, taking on a solemn tone. The sly smile on her face gave away that she wasn't perhaps being as straightforward as Orlen thought.

"R-really?" He asked stunned. "Dat's –"

"_Including_," Brudz raised her voice slightly to interrupt Orlen. "How best ter exploit onez fellow Orks."

Orlen's expression suddenly changed. "Wha' does dat mean?" He snapped suspiciously.

Brudz cackled and turned to face the Mek. "I 'eard what yew yelled out; da racket woke me up. Now, I'm goin' do what apprentices do best an' do what dere mentor teaches 'em." She smiled toothily up at Orlen.

"Bloody 'ell," he groaned back. "Yew slimy liddle punk. Yer want me ter fix yer bike, so's I can live ter see anuver day?"

"No, not fix me bike," Brudz replied. "I will be da only Ork ter touch me bike. I want yer ta fix da wartrakk when we gets ter Squigopolis. Also, yew can drag me bike da rest ov da way dere – I'm sick ov it."

Orlen narrowed his eyes; he didn't like the demands one bit. "In exchange fer wot?"

"If yew agree to doze terms, I'll ask me sistah really nicely ter not go ape shit on yer." Orlen didn't seem too willing to agree, so Brudz prompted him a little more. "If yer don't agree… I'll inject me sistah wiv some ov 'er own fightin' jooce – an' yew saw 'ow crazy dat made da boyz get."

"Grrr… fine!" He spat reluctantly. "I'll drag yer crappy bike and fix da wartrakk."

Brudz kicked Orlen in the shin. "Don't call me bike CRAPPY!" She ran off and hid behind her sister before Orlen could crush her. "Now den; Cezzy-Po, would yew be az nice ter not 'urt Orlen? If 'ee's draggin' da bike, we c'n 'ave a rest."

Cezzy smiled crookedly; she lowered her scalpels. "I always knew yew would one day become az shneaky as me," she said admirably to her sister. "Fine, I'll leave 'im alone az long az 'ee sticks to da agreement."

The Snakebite Mek cursed to himself in his head; he didn't know what was worse: being cut to pieces by a Mad Dok, or becoming the slave of an Ork who barely came up to his rib cage. It was going to be a very long day.

For the first time since she had crashed, Brudz was on her bike again; she sat on top of the charred metal lump, looking extremely pleased with her self. The engine may not have been operational but Orlen was doing a fine job of dragging it through the desert. He had been extremely rough with the bike, dragging it over rocks and through small ditches, but soon gave up after realising Brudz enjoyed the ride even more.

"Can yer at least get of da bike?" He asked at last. "I said I'd drag da bike, not yew."

Brudz took a second to deicide, and called out to her sister. "Oi, Cezzy-Po!"

As soon as Orlen heard her answer he knew he shouldn't have asked. "Okay, okay, stay on da bike," he grunted, assuming he was going to be threatened with the scalpel again if he displeased Brudz.

Cezzy-Po wasn't far away; she was walking with Ongrat again. Fortunately for him, she was preoccupied with Squiggy and the Weirdboy merely had to nod now and then. When she heard her sister call she looked around. "Yeh, what?"

"Do yew an' Ongrat wanna ride da bike? I feels like stretchin' me legs fer a bit."

The Dok's ears perked up and Ongrat shot Brudz an icy glare. He knew the runty Mek said it to get on his and Orlen's nerves.

"Whoo-hoo!" Cezzy shouted and ran over to the bike, jumping on as Brudz jumped off. "C'mon Ongrat, give yer feet a rest. I c'n treat yer blisters if yer got any, hee, hee."

Not wanting to cause the Dok to go off the deep end again, he unenthusiastically joined her. He grunted sympathetically to Orlen as he walked past his friend.

It was dark by the time the Orks stopped again. Uurgrin forbid the lighting of fires to help avoid being detected. Orlen was relieved to be able to stop walking; he dumped the ropes and lay face-down on the ground. Thuds echoed through the make-shift camp as Orks all dropped to the ground to sit and rest; Jamz' distinct chinking rose above all others.

A full moon lit the desert up eerily; Cezzy curled up beneath a shrub and went to sleep – her energised state had left her exhausted. Ongrat walked over to Orlen and sat down; he studied the moon for a moment before speaking. "I want ter stab dat git." He said bluntly.

Orlen grunted in agreement. He felt his furs lifted off his back and tried to swat away what he thought was Ongrat. "I know I smell Ongrat, but what're yer doin'?"

""Dat aint me," Ongrat replied looking around to see who or what was pulling on Orlen's furs. Seeing who it was, he immediately reached out and grabbed the Ork around the throat and pulled them closer. He put the Ork in a neck hold under one of his arms, and put a hand over their mouth firmly. "Yew even try ter call fer yaw sistah, an' I'll break yer neck!" He hissed into Brudz' ear.

Brudz nodded hurriedly. Ongrat took his hand slowly away from her mouth; after he was sure she wouldn't scream for help he asked her, "What're yew doin', botherin' Orlen? Can't yew see 'ee's tired? Da last fing eiver him or me wants is yew pokin' yer nose around while we tries ter rest!"

"I woz just tryin' ter find somefin' ta eat!" Brudz hissed back. She tried to pull her head free, but Ongrat tightened his grip. "I fawt Orlen's furs might be werf a try, but dey's all sweaty and smelly…"

Ongrat snickered at the comment; he couldn't help but find the Mek slightly amusing. "Hur, hur, hur… why don't yew jus' eat some snake, like da rest ov da ladz?"

"Eat a snake?" Brudz screwed her nose up at the idea; she detested the slithering creatures. "I'd ravver eat Orlen's soggy furs dan eat a snake!"

Orlen had been trying to ignore the bickering and get some sleep, but he couldn't let the Evil Sunz Mek go on insulting him. Even if his furs really were wet and stinky with sweat.

"Dere's always dat squig yaw sistah owns," He said rolling over onto his side so his back was to the pair. "An' don't make fun ov me. I'm sweaty coz I worked all day – unlike yew."

"Hmm… maybe Squiggy's got a spare liver or somefin'." Brudz twisted her head so she was looking up at Ongrat sideways. "Oi, can yer let me go now? I won't bovver yer again tonight."

The Weirdboy gave Brudz a warning snarl and lifted his arm. The Mek scuttled off into the darkness. Orlen looked at Ongrat. "I didn't fink she'd take what I said seriously, hur, hur."

Brudz walked over to where her sister had gone to sleep. She pushed a few branches away and looked under the bush. "Cezzy? Uhm… She ain't 'ere. Huh."

She stood up and looked around; dark lumps littered the ground. She walked around the camp looking for a dirty white coat and shiny medical instruments. Every Ork she asked hadn't seen the Dok anywhere besides under the bush.

"Cezzy! Cezzy-Po, where are ya?" She whispered loudly.

After being threatened to shut up or die, she decided to go visit Jamz, Oric and Uurgrin; maybe the Dok went to visit them. She walked through the camp to where most of the Nobs had gathered; she spotted Jamz' huge glinting hulk and tip-toed over to try and avoid waking any sleeping Orks. She was about to ask him if Cezzy had visited when she realised her brother was asleep.

"What yer want?" She heard Oric ask. She spotted him close by, sitting beside Uurgrin. Brudz walked over and spoke to him.

"I'm lookin' fer Cezzy," she whispered. "I've been lookin' for 'er, but she's gone. Did she come over 'ere?"

Oric shook his head. "Nah. She ain't been over 'ere."

"Best yer go fer now," Uurgrin spoke to Brudz. "If yer wake up any of da Nobs dey'll probly crush yer. But if yer still can't find Cezzy soon, let me know. She's still da only Dok us Snakebites 'az got."

Brudz inwardly scowled; Uurgrin made it sound like her sister _belonged_ to the clan. But the Dok wasn't a Snakebite, and she only hoped Uurgrin remembered that when the time came to go their separate ways. As she walked away she could hear Uurgrin and Oric muttering; she couldn't catch a word of what they were saying, but she hoped Uurgrin had nothing to do with her sister's disappearance.

The Mek rechecked the bush; there was still no Cezzy-Po. She searched the camp again and again but there was no trace of the Dok anywhere. Brudz sat down; it was difficult to think while she was hungry, and she needed to collect her thoughts.

_If she ain't in da camp… den maybe she's outta da camp. Yeah, maybe she got 'ungry an' went lookin' fer somefin ta eat. Sounds like somefin she'd do… I fink I'll look fer 'er outta da camp an' see if I c'n find somefin' ter eat, too. I bet I'll find 'er not far away. She's probly munchin' on some furry creature._

Five minutes later she walked out of the camp. She began to doubt she'd find Cezzy-Po as she realised how big a place the desert was to search; Brudz continued as planned though, and headed for a cluster of boulders in the distance. She checked all the shrubs along the way for her sister and for anything that might be edible but found nothing except a few spiders.

The cluster of rocks grew bigger as the Ork approached; after an hour of walking and looking about, Brudz arrived at the rocks. They stood much taller than her self – they would be a perfect place to find anything bigger than a spider. _Maybe some wild squigs'll be sleepin' in da rocks, _She thought.

As she walked around the rocks she heard a snuffling sound. Bingo! Either it was Cezzy-Po, or something to eat. She tip-toed closer and peeked around a boulder; in the opening of a large crevice something moved. Brudz quietly pulled a spanner from her back pocket. Moonlight glinted off the body of the animal's pelt giving it a shiny appearance.

A pile of white rocks near the entrance to the crevice caught Brudz' eye; when she looked closer, she realised it wasn't a pile of rocks, but poop; it had a strange smell. As the Ork crept closer to the crevice the smell intensified.

_Reminds me ov da Snakebite's settlement, _she thought to herself. Eager to catch her prey she quickly tip-toed forward again. She paused a few feet from the entrance as something at the back of her minded nagged her… _Why would it smell like da Snakebite's settlement?_

A large triangular head slipped out of the crevice; its forked tongue quivered in the air. It dawned on Brudz why it smelt like the Snakebite's settlement… because the animal she was stalking wasn't a squig, it was a snake.

The snake scented Brudz and was quick to rear up; its long fat body slithered out of the cave and reared up hissing. Spines flared along the spine of the snake, and its belly changed from white to bright yellow. Brudz slowly backed away; the snake stood taller than she did, and it looked about as pissed off as Mumzy did when she was having a bad day at the farm.

Every time Brudz made a move the snake followed her movements and crept closer. Desperate to put distance between herself and the snake, Brudz threw the spanner at it. With lightning speed the snake struck the spanner and tried to bit it; the snake reeled back in shock after breaking a fang on the metal. Brudz made a run for it, but the snake circled her and backed her up against the rocks. The Mek wished her kustom blasta hadn't been broken in the crash; any kind of gun would have been useful right about now, and her slugga was out of ammunition. Even her giant spanner was back at camp; she didn't like lugging it around when it wasn't necessary.

"I'm gonna become one ov dem poops…" She whimpered. "Somebody 'elp me!"

Angry hisses came from the snake; it hadn't liked Brudz yelling and became even more agitated. It moved its head closer to Brudz when suddenly it closed its mouth and looked sideways. Brudz saw its forked tongue zip in and out between the snake's scaled lips. To her relief, the snake moved away towards the rocks again; it was still reared, but Brudz took the opportunity to creep away very slowly.

Another angry hiss escaped from the snake; Brudz nearly collapsed in fright until she realised it wasn't even looking at her; it was hissing at something at the top of the rocks. It reared higher to try and level itself with its new target.

The Mek didn't wait any longer; she ran as fast as she could without looking back. She gave the rocks a wide berth and ran into the camp, bounding straight over to Ongrat and Orlen.

Ongrat woke up with a start as a weight fell on his chest and shook him; what sounded like the shrieks of a banshee rattled his ear drums. Realising it was Brudz he clamped his hand firmly over her mouth and wrestled her to the ground; Orlen sat up looking about ready to kill something until he saw the Mek.

"What da friggin' hell's got 'er worked up?" Ongrat hissed quietly as he tried to stop Brudz from wriggling out of his grasp. He sniffed back a small dribble of waagh essence; Brudz was really worked up. "Give me a 'and ter held 'er down Orlen."

Orlen nodded and pushed Brudz firmly into the dirt with one hand. Ongrat leant closer to Brudz and whispered, "I'm going to take my hand off ov yer mouf; if yew scream again, I swears I'll punch yer brains outta ya eye sockets an' onta da ground."

Brudz whimpered in reply; tendrils of saliva dripped from Ongrat's hand as he removed it. The Evil Sunz Ork was breathing rapidly and on the verge of hyperventilation; she tried to talk but all that came out was muddled up garble.

Ongrat appeared worried; very few things could make an Ork terrified. "Did… did yew see somefin' from da warp?" He asked her seriously.

Brudz shook her head; Ongrat's fear evaporated. "Den what's got yew all scared?"

"I-I-I w-wer-werz l-l-leh-leh…"

"Did yer 'ave a nightmare?" Orlen asked.

Brudz shook her head.

Ongrat quizzed her next. "Did yer get attacked by someone in da camp? I mean, I wouldn't be surprised, yew are annoyin'…"

Brudz shook her head again. "N-no! Stupid! Jus' s-shut up an-an-an' listen!" She took a deep breath and tried to breathe slowly. "I woz lookin' fer Cezzy outta da camp… An'… an'…"

Concern flickered across Ongrat's face. "Iz she alright?" He asked.

"What part ov SHUD UP don't yer undastand?" Brudz griped. "Ask questions when I'm finished! Now den… I woz outta da camp lookin' fer Cezzy. I headed for a stack ov rocks, an' fawt I saw a squig in a cave… but when I got closer… it… it w-woz… A ZOGIN' GIANT KILLA SNAKE! AAAH! AAAAAH! Mmm-mm!"

This time Orlen planted his hand over Brudz' mouth. "Don't yell, yew'll wake ev'ryone up!" He growled.

Ongrat rolled his eyes. "Yew got all scared coz yew saw a snake? Whoopey-freakin'-doo."

Brudz pried a couple of Orlen's fingers from her mouth so she could talk. "It wasn't just any snake, nuffin like doze coloured fings yew shoot up on,"

"I fawt yew woz told we don't shoot up on 'em!" Orlen growled in protest.

Ignoring Orlen's dissent, Brudz continued, "Dis snake, it woz 'uge… it reared up, an' it stood taller den me! It 'ad a belly which changed colour an' spines on it's back! It 'ad real quick reflexes too. Damn fing had me bailed up against da rocks; I woulda been dead if it didn't get distracted by somefin' else, an' I got da chance ter runaway."

"Yaw such a coward," Ongrat scoffed. "Yew musta 'ad a dream; yew sissy types tend ter 'ave a lot ov bad dreams."

"I already told yer IT WASN'T A FLAMMIN' DREAM!" Brudz screamed. "Hhkk…"

"Fank yew Ongrat, now I c'n get some sleep." Orlen rolled back over and closed his eyes. Ongrat had cracked Brudz on the back of the head with his fist, knocking her out. Both the Snakebite Orks could get some peace again.

He dragged Brudz over to a patch of tiger-claw cactuses and dumped here in it. "Dat'll keep yer busy when yer wake up, hur, hur, hur!"

**_Chapter notes:_**

_Zugzwang (Zugzwanged)_ - disadvantageous chess situation: a chess situation in which a player is forced into making a disadvantageous move, especially one that involves the loss of a piece.


	16. Squigopolis

Chapta Fifteen: Squigopolis

**Chapta Fifteen: Squigopolis**

Brudz felt something prodding her in the side. "Wake up!" Orlen grumbled, jabbing her with his boot. "Time ter get movin' ya bed-wettin' baby."

"I aint wet me bed since… Oi, ow… OW!" As Brudz woke up she became aware of the pain all over her body. "What da freakin'… Dammit, bloody tigah claws!"

The Snakebite Mek laughed gruffly as he walked away. "Hur, hur, hur… looks like yew'll need ta see da Dok."

"Ow, ow, ow…" Brudz tried to pull off a clump of the cactus, but only managed to jab her fingers in the process; the spikes were very unwilling to be disturbed. "Oh, wait… Cezzy-Po!"

She limped off cussing; she had failed to find her sister the night before and feared the Dok might have been killed or gotten lost. The disappearance of Cezzy-Po made Brudz very anxious; who else would stitch her cuts when she stacked her bike? Who would make that fantastic fighting juice? Who would give her a discounted squig-hair transplant? Was there even another Dok capable of tranquilising Jamz when he required armour maintenance? What would Brudz do, if her sister was dead? There was no one else she trusted that was sadistic enough to cleanse her wounds with salt, iodine or Detol. Despite the pain, Brudz had always recovered well thanks to Cezzy-Po; and there was no way the Mek would put iodine or salt onto her wounds by herself.

"Cezzy-Po!" Brudz called out as she limped around the camp. She came across Uurgrin, Oric, Jamz and the other Nobs and asked them, "'az anyone seen da Dok?"

"looks like someone slept in a bad spot." Oric grinned amused at Brudz. "If yew want a brain transplant, dat's understandable. Hur, hur!"

"Shut yer mouf," Brudz grumbled.

"Dat's no way ter talk to a bigga Ork," Jamz snarled. "An' Cezzy aint missin', she's over dere, under da bushes. Are yer blind?"

Uurgrin plucked a prickle from Brudz' head, ripping some of her skin off. "Go wake 'er up, we gotta go."

Brudz instinctively went to put her hand on her head but only managed to get her hand stuck to the spikes. "Ow! Bloody hell… Okay."

Sure enough, when Brudz walked over and lifted the branches of the brush, she saw Cezzy-Po curled up with Squiggy sitting beside her, with a scalpel clenched in his fist (his middle digit was still stuck in the raised position).

"When did yew get back?" Brudz said looking stunned. She poked Squiggy with a spiky boot, causing the beast to wake up squealing; Cezzy-Po awoke sleepily from the noise.

"What… why we gotta get up… I wanna shleep some more…" Cezzy-Po said sleepily, rubbing her eyes with her fist.

"Where da heck were ya last night? I looked ev'rywhere!" Brudz scolded the Dok. "An' why's yew dressed like a Goff, in dem black fings? Aye, wait, iz dere a pub near 'ere yew didn't tell me about? _Did yew go off fer a late night pub crawl wivout me?_"

Cezzy-Po crawled out from under the bush and picked Squiggy up. She took the scalpel from her pet. "Yew seen Ongrat?" She asked.

"Stop avoidin' me question!" Brudz growled angrily. "An' I don't know where Ongrat iz – hopefully ee got eatin' by da hooge snake in 'iz sleep."

"Where's Ongrat?" Cezzy demanded, looking around with her hand shielding her eyes from the morning sun and ignoring her sister's question. "I gots a present fer 'im!"

"Yer got a wha' fer 'im?" Brudz asked unable to believe what she heard.

"A present!" Cezzy repeated, begging to quiver in excitement. "Hee! Hee! Hee! I found it last night when I woz out fer a walk."

"So dat's why yew woz missin'!" Brudz fumed. "Yew coulda told me! Or at least some one! I went out lokkin' fer ya, finkin' yew woz dead, or lost! An' wot's da present, anyway? Yew c'n at least show me, afta all, I almost got eaten alive by some big ugly serpent lookin' fer yew, ya ungrateful scapel-tottin' hooligan."

"Sounds like you mighta met 'im b'fore," Cezzy grinned.

"'Course I've met 'im b'fore, Ee's da Snakebite's Weirdboy! Ugliest Ork evah ter walk da planet, hur, hur."

Cezzy narrowed her eyes as her hand slid into her pocket. "C'mere, so we c'n get dose painful lookin' spikies outta ya. Hurrr…"

Brudz backed away muttering," why's I got a bad feelin' 'bout dis…" She watched as her sister pulled a pair of red handled pliers from her pocket. "An' why's yer got a pair ov pliers? 'Ey wait a minute… doze are MY pliers! When did yew steal dem?"

The Dok lunged forward with the pliers and clamped a piece of the tiger claw stuck in Brudz' cheek before her sister was able to escape. "Hee! Hee! Hee!" She cackled like a witch. "I'm gonna enjoy removin' ev'ry last prickle. Yew know why dey're so painful?"

"Why?" Brudz asked, trying to pull her cheek free, but the spikes refused to dislodge.

"Because dese cactus spikes are cunnin' liddle _pricks_," Cezzy's evil grin spread wider. "Da spikes are kinda like arrow 'eads or fishin' 'ooks. Dey're covered in tiny oppositely spiked which point in da uver direcshen to da actual cactus spike, so when dey get stabbed inta somefin', dey catch on yer flesh when yer try ta pull 'em out."

"Great," Brudz sighed. "So dey're just like yew – 'urty an' sadistic."

Cezzy yanked the small tiger claw clump from Brudz' cheek, making her sister snort with pain. "Dere now, only anuver few 'undred spikes left ter remove, hee! Hee! Hee!"

Brudz' cheek stung as if she'd been bitten by a bull ant. "Be gentle!" She hissed.

The Dok reserved no mercy; she ripped spikes and clumps of cactus from her sister's hide enthusiastically, giggling like a maniac. A symphony of shrieks and swearing echoed through the camp which attracted a small group of bored onlookers. Ongrat and Orlen were among them.

"I shoulda threw 'er ina patch of cactuses sooner," Ongrat laughed. "Dis iz fun ta watch har, har, har…"

As the audience grew, the Dok put more effort into making her sister scream. "Oh look," she said pointing to her sister's arm pit. "Dat looks like a nasty place ter 'ave tiger claws, hee, hee…"

Brudz tried to fend her sister off; but with one hand still stuck to the top of her head, she was extremely disadvantaged. "No! No! Not wiv all dem Snakebites watchin'! No! AAAAH! AAAAAAAAH! 'URTY! 'URTY! Oo, hee hee, dat tickles… AAAAAAH!"

Orks erupted with applause and gruff laughter; some even threw a few teef to Cezzy-Po. One of the Nobz bellowed, "Har! Har! Har! Hur! Hur! Hur! I like dat Dok, we should ask da Boss if we c'n keep 'er! She'll grow ta make a real good Paingirl!"

Cezzy-Po kept ripping out the spikes heartily; Brudz on the other hand felt like she had just been slapped to the ground and sat on by a Squiggoth. Her suspicions were beginning to come to light…

Stuck between being numbed and horrified, Brudz made an effort to stop screaming; she clenched her teeth shut as her sister pulled out the spikes. Even for the most painful removals she did little more than squeak. Eventually the crowd began to disperse; when all of the Orks had left, Brudz talked to her sister.

"Would yer really leave da Evil Sunz ter join dese backwards finkin' bucket-ov-vomit clan?" She asked, unable to hide her resent. "Yew look like yew've never been 'appier wiv 'em."

"Dey aint az bad az yew fink," Cezzy said focusing on a deeply embedded spike. "Yew jus' don't like 'em coz dey don't 'ave much in da way ov dakka."

"Dakka aint got nuffin' ter do wiv it – okay maybe jus' a little. Grrr…" Brudz winced as several spikes were ripped out in succession. "… I've felt like I've been walked all ovuh eva since we landed in dere settlement. Dey aint got no respect fer an Ork like me!"

Cezzy-Po paused and looked her sister in the eyes. Her bottom lip quivered and she began to snicker. "An' Ork like… ah har, har, har! An' Ork like yoo-hoo! Hoo! Hee, hee, hee! Har! Har! Har! Har! An Ork like… AH! HAR! HAR! HAR! HEE! HEE! HEE! Snort! Oh, yer so funny, hee, hee, hee…"

"IT AINT FUNNY!" Brudz bellowed, grabbing the pliers off of her sister and pointing them in her face. "I'm a MEK! An' I get treated like a lowly filfy GRETCHIN'! I know I aint dat big, but I's good at fixin' dere fings! An' da fanks I get? I get ter be dis clan's FLOOR MAT!"

Spittle covered Cezzy-Po's face; she wiped it off with the hem of her coat as she recalled what Mumzy told her about her younger spore-sister. The isolation from the clans really had left the Mek a little uneducated about some of the most important key factors to Ork society… as amusing as it was, it was also a pain. Things would have to change.

"Yer fink yew'll be treated any different when we getz to our tribe?" Cezzy asked her sister, resisting the temptation to hack the Mek's head open and poke her brain with something sharp.

The Ork didn't answer; she just grunted and looked slightly wary as if her sister was trying to trick her or something.

"Well yer won't be!" Cezzy yelled. "Yew'll be treated like a floor mat till yer get bigga! Or scarier - But mostly _bigga_!"

"I doubt yew'll even see our tribe again." Brudz snarled and walked away with the pliers gripped tightly in her hand. "Oo needs yew anyway? I c'n fix meself! Any moron c'n pull cactus spikes out ov dere skin!"

A warm wind began to blow tendrils of dust over the red dirt and gravel. Cezzy stood alone by the shrubs fuming; clumps of tiger claw cactuses littering the ground. She had inherited very little patience. After a few minutes she walked off to find Ongrat; it was time to give him his present before they headed off. It didn't take her long to locate the Weirdboy; sparks were flying around his head.

"Oi," Cezzy called out, "Ongrat!"

The Weirdboy was chatting with some of his clan members; he looked around and immediately held his hand up. "Don't come too close," he ordered. "Yew'll give me a bad case ov flatulence. An' I don't want no 'eads explodin'."

"What? Oh, right," Cezzy-Po said remembering how Ongrat dealt with unwanted surges of Waagh! energy. "Well, c'n yer… uh – dere's somefin' of yours in da gully over dere…"

Ongrat thought about what he could have possibly lost; he didn't own anything except a metal staff, a bunch of cow bells, and the furs he wore. Curious, he headed over to the gully leaving his friends to talk amongst themselves. He looked down into the shrub-encrusted ditch and saw the distinct glimmer of reptilian scales. Ongrat breathed in sharply as a large snake reared up out of the shrubs; its head was half the size of the Weirdboy, and its body was as thick as a tree trunk.

"Surprise!" Cezzy shouted startling Ongrat. "I knew yew liked snakes, so I got yer da biggest one I could find!"

Cezzy-Po walked over to a rock and untied a rope which was tied to makeshift muzzle binding the Snake's jaws shut. "Aint he a beauty?" She said admirably.

Ongrat was stunned into silence. The snake seemed familiar for some reason… it looked suspiciously similar to what Brudz had described. "How did… where did… dat's just… zoggin' 'ell dats one big snake!"

"I named 'im Jawge, hee, hee!" Cezzy pulled on the rope and the snake came closer, leveling its head with Ongrat's and starring him in the eyes.

'Jawge' hissed at Ongrat, sniffing him with a flicker of its forked blue tongue. A row of spines lay flat along the snake's spine, twitching slightly as it inspected the Ork Weirdboy.

"'Ee won't attack yer," Cezzy said handing the rope over to Ongrat. "Jawge learnt dat bein' snappy to 'iz owner means 'ee gets a floggin'. Oh, an' yew c'n ride 'im. Jus' sit on 'iz back and pull da rope which eva way yer want Jawge ter sliver. Now, let's get movin', shall we?"

Unsure how to deal with a present of such magnitude, Ongrat silently lead Jawge by the rope back to camp. One by one the Orks stopped what they were doing to stare in amazement at the colossal snake being led through the horde.

Only one Ork screamed. "OH MY ZOGGIN' GOD! WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE! AAAAAAAAAH! AAAAAAAH! AAAAAH!" Brudz fainted soon after seeing Jawge.

Jawge slithered near the front of the Ork horde as they trudged through the red dusty desert. There were no signs of clouds and everyone sweated profusely; the stench would have been over powering to anyone that wasn't an Ork. Even Jawge stopped licking the air with his tongue.

Cezzy-Po, Squiggy and Ongrat sat on Jawge's back. The snake didn't object to having passengers, which made Ongrat even more suspicious. He had identified the viper as a Desert Python. Despite the snake being a constrictor, it did still posses a venomous bite – the venom temporarily paralyzed the victim, and helped to digest it. The Snakebite tribe had possessed several of these reptiles before the explosion, but none had been as large as Jawge.

"Cezzy-Po…" Ongrat muttered looking straight ahead.

"Yes?" The Dok asked leaning forward, eager to please the Weirdboy.

Ongrat held back a shudder; he wasn't fond of having a Dok prone to violent mood swings sitting behind him. "How did yew catch da snake?"

Cezzy-Po had been prepared for this question; she had sensed Ongrat had been pondering it since he first laid eyes on Jawge. "Can't tell yer," She grinned and leant back looking extremely pleased with herself. Squiggy crawled up onto her shoulder snorting. "Okay, okay, Squiggy's convinced me to tell yer jus' a little bit. I used a super secret something to do something super secret."

"Oh really?" Ongrat replied sarcastically. "I would never 'ave guessed."

At the very back of the line, far from the giant snake as was possible, Orlen was dragging Brudz' mangled bike by the ropes slung over his shoulders. The Evil Sunz Mek sat on the wreck muttering angrily to herself while extracting the tiger claws. Every now and then she would throw a clump at Orlen if he got too close to the snake or if she over heard him cursing at her under his breath. He wasn't sure what had the girl so irked but he wasn't game enough to ask.

For the first time that day though, she asked him a question. "'Ow'd yew get so big? Did yer 'ave ter eat a lot've pies?"

Orlen rethought the question in his mind before answering carefully. "Oh, well… ter grow outwards, yeh, eat lotsa pies. But ta grow upwards, yew gotta exhert yer dominance… yew know, fightin', killin', arguin', an' pushin' uvvers around. It takes time. But…"

"But _what?_" Brudz asked suspiciously.

"Well… I 'eard girls don't grow as fast as boys, dat's all." Orlen braced himself for the impact of another tiger claw; but it never came. "Woz dere… uh, somefin' buggin' yew?"

The young Mek flung a small tiger claw onto the ground; she grunted with pain. "No."

Deciding it was best not to push the subject Orlen nodded. "Okey dokey den."

It was late noon by the time the Snakebites saw their first glimpse of Squigopolis; they saw buildings on the horizon. Orlen wondered if Brudz waz even still there; he hadn't heard anything from her for the past few hours. When he looked back Brudz hadn't moved; she was quietly removing the last of the prickles from her clothes with her back to him. Orlen decided to enjoy the peace while it lasted and kept pulling the bike along without a word of conversation.

As the Snakebites approached the outskirts of Squigopolis the smells and noise of the city grew stronger and stronger. The scents of other Orks, squigs, smoke, food, grime and oil mixed together an overpowering odor, and the hubbub of the inner city constantly echoed around the outskirts.

There were no defensive walls around the outskirts of Squigopolis like there had been at the Snakebite's settlement; it was more like a larger, busier version of Tam'urt. Orks of many clans lived in the city but there were just as many freebooters roaming about who belonged to no clan. Squigopolis was a capital city of no specific allegiance which had become famous for its squig festivals. Squig breeders from all over the country would gather to buy, sell, and enter their squigs into competitions.

Merchants approached the Snakebites offering a variety of goods for sale. Many successful sales were made; thanks to the Goffs, most of the Snakebites were temporarily rich and didn't hesitate to trade-up for better equipment, items, and indulge in some fancy foods on offer. Even Cezzy-Po was getting in on the action.

"What about dis one den, eh? Nice an' sharp, yeah. Not too bent, eiver; I got dis off anuver Dok. 'Ee upgraded to a an electric one."

Cezzy frowned; she already had a pizza cutter. And hers looked better anyway. "Yew got anymore ov dem electric ones left?" She asked.

The Merchant slipped the pizza cutter back into his bag. "Nah, sorry, sold da last one. Yew interested in anew set of scalpels?"

"I've got plenty of scalpels," Cezzy replied. "But do yer 'ave any razors blades?"

Eager to sell something, the merchant rummaged through his back of goodies. "Da type dat oomies shave dere 'eads wiv, or da type emos cut dere wrists wiv?"

"Da second one."

"Yep, I got 'em. 'Ere, take a look." He handed Cezzy-Po a box of steel razor blades; they looked a bit rusty, and some were chipped, but she decided to take them anyway. She handed over three teeth, and the Merchant moved onto the next person. "Tell all yer buddies about me, hur, hur."

Eventually Uurgrin ordered his tribe to keep moving bellowing out, "There'll be time fer spendin' teef later, but fer now, we gotta find a place ter set up camp."

The merchants walked away unhappily, but they didn't want to argue with the Snakebite's boss. The tribe followed Uurgrin towards the inner city until he stopped beside a vacated block which was blackened with soot from an old bonfire.

"Dis'll be our camp site," Uurgrin announced. "I know it's small, but it's better den campin' out in da desert. I don't care what yer all do – go inta da city or whateva - but make sure yer all back 'ere in da mornin' – my senior Nobz are ter stay 'ere for a short while. I want ter 'ave a meetin'. Jamz an' Oric yew join in too."

Brudz walked up to Orlen and held her hand out. "Gimme da bike now. An' don't ferget, yew gotta fix da wartrakk."

Orlen handed her the ropes. "But I got a meetin' wiv da Boss."

"Well, do it _afta_ da meetin'." Brudz shouldered the ropes and began to drag her bike onto the empty block.

She worked on her bike until she was forced to stop when the light faded and the sky lit up with stars. Uurgrin was still speaking to his Nobz across the road behind a half-collapsed brick wall; Brudz wondered what could possibly take three hours to talk about. She also found it suspicious Uurgrin had specifically requested that her brother and Oric join the meeting. It was tempting to sneak over and listen in…

After contemplating the pros and cons of suck a task, Brudz decided it was worth the risk of being caught and brutally punished. She looked around; in the dim light she saw Cezzy-Po over at the other side of the block, sitting beside Jawge who was curled up. Besides Uurgrin and his Nobz, there were no other Orks in sight. When she was certain the coast was clear, she crept low across the empty block. As she reached the road she got to her belly and crawled towards the crumbled wall; she could hear snatches of the meeting as she got closer.

"… hur, hur, hur, dat's funny."

"Dat's got nuffin ter do wiv what we woz talkin' 'bout lads. Get back on track! Yer all got da attenshen span of a flea."

"Yeah! Shud up an' listen to yer boss! 'Ee woz talkin' 'bout yer tribe's fewcha!"

"Shut yer maw, yer big ugly tin can, we only takes orders from Uurgrin!"

"TALK TER ME LIKE DAT AGAIN 'N' WE'LL SEE 'OO'S STRONGER!"

"STOP YER FIGHTIN'! Save it fer later lads, or I'll crack yer 'eads open. An' da next Ork 'oo talks before bein' told ter, gets dere tongue ripped out fer free. What I woz gonna say _b'fore_ yew all started tellin' dirty jokes woz dat we, as a tribe, don't 'ave a fewcha unless we c'n some'ow find new Snakebites or become immoral."

"Dontcha mean 'immortal', boss?"

"Orlen, if yew weren't da last Mek my tribe's got, den I'd be brutally hacking away at yew wiv me axe. But yew are, so I'm jus' gonna ask yer real nicely… SHUT YER PIE' OLE!"

"Sorry boss…"

"If anyone else interrupts me… anyway, where woz I? Oh yeah. I don't forsee our tribe getting' any larger any time soon; an' dere's no way on I'd even consider joinin' tribes wiv me bruvver. Now, I aint a coward, but dere aint no way we c'n survive another attack from da Goffs. It woz only fanks ter Gork an' Mork dat we managed ter win dat last battle – an' only at a huge cost. Our settlement's flattened, an' we lost fwree quarters or more ov our lads. I've got an idea, but it doubt it's gonna make yer all happy. But dat's why I'm boss – coz I c'n tell yer all what ter do coz I'm bigga an' meaner. An' smarter. But mostly bigga an' meaner."

_Cezzy-Po said somefin' like dat earlier… _Brudz thought, contemplating Uurgrin's words. _Ee got ter be Boss coz ee's bigga an' meaner…an' smarter – or so ee says. I don't fink Cezzy-Po mentioned da smarter bit. But den again, she an' Uurgrin seems ter fink bein' bigga an' meaner iz da most important bit about getting' da respect ov da uvver Orks._

"What woz I talkin' 'bout again?"

"Some idea yer 'ad dat yew says's gonna make some ov us un'appy, Boss."

"Oh yeah, dat's right. Jamz, yer Boss, what's 'is name?"

"Gotshik Buguts Frag'ead, ee really likes stikkbomz, hur, hur."

"Yeah, I remember 'im now… Jamz, I want me tribe ter travel wiv yew ter yer camp. I want ter ask yer Boss if ee'd consider an alliance."

Silence fell over the crowd; even Brudz was left stunned. Uurgrin spoke again saying, "Well, I did day yew lot probly wouldn't be 'appy about it."

Truthfully, Brudz had not snuck over to hear about some alliance between Uurgrin's Snakebites and Gotshik's Evil Sunz. As interesting and flabbergasting as the conversation was, she wanted to hear whether Uurgrin really was considering taking Cezzy-Po into his clan. Brudz devised a simple plan which would take advantage of the Snakebite's 'attenshen span of a flea'. She scurried quietly around the crumbled wall until she was at the back of the meeting.

When nobody was looking she poked her head in through a window space and in as deep a voice as she could conjure, said aloud "what about da Dok?" And quickly retracted, hiding behind the wall again.

The Orks all started muttering.  
"Yeah, what about da Dok?"

"Oo's talkin' 'bout me sistah?"

"I'm 'ungry. Can we go now?"

"ALL OV YER SHUT UP! Somebody already brought dat subject up. See what I mean 'bout da attenshen span ov a flea? If yer too shtupid ter rememba what woz discussed, den what's da point repeatin' it? Yew'll probly jus' ferget it again. Hurrr… I am feelin' 'ungry too. Alright boyz, let's call it a night – Jamz, Oric, fink about what I've said. Ev'rybody, we'll 'ave anuver meetin' tomorrow evenin'. Till den, do whatever yer want."

Brudz hid behind a pile of ruble beside the wall as the Orks dispersed from the meeting. She cursed silently; she wished she had been a little quicker to eaves drop. The thought that her sister had been brought up at the meeting made her anger spike; she wanted to know what was said. The Orks may have just been praising their makers that the Dok was present at the battle to stitch up injuries, or perhaps they were making jokes; but Brudz worried that the Snakebites wanted to make her part of their tribe. She wouldn't know though unless she could somehow inconspicuously probe a member of the meeting.

Four such Orks came to her mind first; Jamz, Oric, Ongrat and Orlen. After carefully considering which of the four would be best to question she decided upon Jamz. He was the easiest to get information out of, and being her and Cezzy-Po's brother, would hopefully be more than willing to spill the beans if what was discussed at the meeting about the Dok was less than pleasing to him.

Brudz looked about before leaving the meeting site incase any of the Nobz were lingering about. Most had headed for the inner city and were walking down the road; all except for Jamz, Oric, Uurgrin, Orlen and Ongrat. She was surprised to see them settling down at the camp site stacking bits of timber to start a fire; it would be impossible to question Jamz while he had company – not without arousing suspicion among the others at any rate. This annoyed her immensely as she trudged back towards the campsite. Brudz paused at the curb; no one had seen her approaching yet, and the fire wasn't lit… she wondered if this was perhaps a better opportunity than the meeting to find out if Uurgrin wanted to steal Cezzy-Po from her. If Jamz had any protests, he would be more than likely to blab about it while Uurgrin was there.

Silently she thanked Gork and Mork for providing an opportunity to spy. She looked around for anything she could use as cover; there wasn't much on the burnt out block except for a few piles of scraps. She snuck over to the closest one; in it was a metal canister which someone had used to light a fire in. Deciding it would be better than hiding behind a charred plank of wood she dug it out quietly. She emptied the debris out of the barrel onto the ground and put it over her head; if she hunched over and bent her knees, it covered her entirely. Perfect.

Flickering orange light woke Cezzy-Po from her doze; Jawge uncurled when he detected heat from the fire and lifted his head to scent the air with a flicker of his tongue.

"Let's go sit wiv 'em," Cezzy said to Jawge picking up his lead. "It's getting' cold. Huh? What's dat…"

Across the block Cezzy-Po saw a metal barrel shuffling closer to the fire, pausing now and then until it seemed to stop a few meters from Uurgrin and the others. Curious, the Dok decided to go and investigate. Maybe there was some kind of hideous creature which required surgery in the barrel…

She walked over towards the barrel with Jawge close behind. Jamz spotted her and greeted the Dok in his usual fashion. "Bring me some beer!"

"I aint got none," Cezzy replied walking past the Orks. "An' b'fore yer ask, no, I aint got food, eiver."

Jamz grumbled but didn't persist; instead he went back to talking with Uurgrin. As Cezzy-Po approached the barrel it quivered slightly - there was definitely something inside.

Just as Cezzy was inches away, Jamz spoke to her again making her jump with fright. "Where's yer sister? Dat runt needs ter fix da wartrakk."

"Oh, I's gonna fix dat…" Orlen spoke. "It woz part of da deal."

"What deal?" Oric demanded. "No offence Orlen, but dat wartrakk means a lot ter me – I don't want some Mek oo's only ev'r worked on electwik piggies ter go messin' wiv dat wondrous piece ov dakka."

Orlen growled but Uurgrin raised his hand to silence him. "Sort it out later boyz, I don't want anuver argument ter start. It woz bad enough dat Frakzet intarupted me fwree times in da meetin' coz ee fawt we were talkin' 'bout iz spore muvver. Bloody twit needs ter clean iz ears out."

Once Cezzy-Po was sure Jamz had forgotten about her she lifted up the barrel and looked under; nothing was there. She walked around the other side and did the same thing – still she saw nothing. The Dok wasn't going to give up that easily – she walked back around to the front and with a heave she tipped the barrel over. She leant over and looked in; Brudz was wedged inside.

"Aaah! Bloody hell." Cezzy said looking disappointed. "I woz 'oppin' it woz somefin' else. But what are yer doin' in a barrel, Brudz? Looks a bit cramped in dere."

"I fawt I smelt somefin' bad," Ongrat sneered. "Stop eaves droppin' yer little whelp."

Brudz crawled out of the barrel and stood up, dusting her clothes. "I wasn't eaves droppin'," she protested, "I woz, um… findin' somewhere warm ter sleep. Nice an' warm in dat barrel, yeh. Yep, yep, yeh… an' rain proof, too. Heh heh…"

"Is it really warm id dere?" Cezzy-Po asked inspecting the barrel.

"Uh, sure…" Brudz stood the barrel back up and rolled it closer to Cezzy. "Might uh… make a nice bed, or somefin'. Maybe even a helmet fer Jawge…"

The ensuing ten minutes consisted of Brudz being yelled at by Uurgrin and Jamz about 'why eaves droppin' iz bad fer yer healf'. Their point was proven when Jamz booted her so hard she flew across the road and landed on a pile of bricks.

"Dat woz 'mean!" Cezzy-Po protested. "Yew 'orrible git! Coulda waited 'till dawn, so I could see it properly."

"Yew wanna learn ter fly, too?" Jamz snarled glaring down at the Dok. She shook her head. "Den SHUT up!"


	17. Da Hunt Begins

Chapta Sixteen: Da Hunt Begins

**Chapta Sixteen: Da Hunt Begins**

Say of Da Day: _"Two rights dun make a left, but fwree rights do.__" __–__ Jinshak._

Nighttime had come and gone, leaving a mass of drunken Snakebite Orks in its wake. The camp was only just beginning to fill up as the Snakebites returned from the pubs, clubs, bars and casinos throughout Squigopolis.

One of the drunken arrivals tripped over a metal barrel, startling it's occupant. Cezzy-Po emerged slightly confused but quickly came to her senses and lashed out with her scalpels at the culprit.

"Ugh… be quiet will yer? I'm tryin' ter sleep." Ongrat whined from somewhere amongst the Jawge's coils.

Squiggy came running from across the camp with a rat clamped in his mouth, and another in his hand. The squig clambered onto Jawge and disappeared; it flew into the air several seconds later with Ongrat swearing after it.

"Ee's just tryin' ter show ee likes yer, ya big mean git." Cezzy groused at Ongrat and ran over to squiggy who was squealing in pain. "Oh dear, dat'll need stitchin'…"

While Cezzy-Po was doing open surgery on Squiggy Orlen came over. "Cezzy-Po, do yer know where Brudz keeps 'er tools? I need some ter fix da wartrakk."

Blood squirted onto the Dok's jacket as she cut something squishy. "Yeh, on 'er bike's a toolbox. Red fing it is."

"I tried lookin' for 'er bike, but I don't see it." Orlen replied, looking at the bloody mess which was twitching slightly.

Cezzy pointed her scalpel towards the back corner of the block without looking up. "It's over dere, or are yer blind?"

Orlen straightened up and looked to where she was pointing; there was nothing there except an Ork spewing his guts up. "Nope, aint dere."

"Shoo," Cezzy said irritated. "Leave me be 'til I stitch Squiggy back up. She probly moved it."

Orlen searched the camp and the surrounding buildings – he couldn't find Brudz' bike anywhere. He thought about how Brudz would react if she found out it was missing – possibly stolen. Orlen walked back to the camp to find the Evil Sunz Mek; Cezzy approached him before he got very far – her hands were covered in blood. When he explained the bike was missing, Cezzy sighed.

"I hope yer wrong about da bike bein' stolen," Cezzy-Po said glumly. "Yew won't believe 'ow much she loves dat fing; it belonged to 'er spore daddy. Not dat I care… but she's gonna chuck da biggest wobbly of da centaury if it's missin'."

"It can't 'ave been missin' fer too long," Orlen replied. "I could swear I 'eard 'er tinkerin' away early dis mornin' b'fore dat sun came up."

"Let's go 'ave a look at where she 'ad it parked; if someone stole it, maybe dere's tracks left." Cezzy-Po suggested and walked with Orlen across the block.

Where the bike had been the night before, there was now nothing more than bare dirt – and a puddle of spew nearby. Cezzy-Po inspected the ground and saw tyre marks leading out of a hole in the fence. She found something scratched into one of the wooden palings. Beneath the note was a picture of a hand with the middle finger sticking up.

Cezzy-Po studied the glyphs and read them out, "Zog… yew… all… ter… heel."

"I fink dat's meant ter say 'hell'." Orlen said pointing to the last word. "Whoever stole da bike aint a good speller."

"Da bike woz not stolen, Orlen." Cezzy explained. "What we 'ave is a case ov an Ork frustrated wiv da facts of life."

Orlen looked at Cezzy puzzled. "'Ow do yew know all dat?" He asked her.

She pointed to another fence paling with a childish picture of an Ork on a bike with a spanner in its hand running over another Ork. "Well, yew certainly didn't draw dat, did yer?"

"Oh well," Orlen shrugged. "Not much we c'n do. I bet she jus' went inta da city der da day."

Cezzy sighed; Orlen was right - there really wasn't much either of them could do. "Yeah, I guess so. Oh well, we might as well go inta da city today, too."

Cezzy-Po, Orlen, Ongrat, Jamz and Oric all walked to the business district of Squigopolis. Thousands of Orks of all shapes, sizes and shades of green packed the streets and buildings of the huge city. The Ork capital had once been a human metropolis before the Orks wiped them out over one-hundred years ago. Ever since, the buildings had picked up an Orky appearance as they were patched up and renovated. Exposed metals were oxidized, not a single window had any glass left in it and very few doors had a ninety-degree angle to be seen in the frame. Random bits and pieces were bolted, welded, screwed, nailed or glued over holes and cracks in the walls; some walls which had been completely demolished were now replaced with conglomerates of scraps, or the building was simply joined to the one beside it to make an even bigger building. The buildings all looked generally jagged or pointy; the entire city would have been classed as an OH&S issue by human standards if any of the citizens had been left alive to see what their city transformed into.

Despite the numerous casinos many Orks openly gambled on the streets; all kinds of contests could be witnessed – face eating contests, squig fights, Ork fights, scar poka, screaming contests, eating contests and even street racing in some of the less business orientated streets. Squigopolis was alive all hours of the day: the banter of Orks could be heard everywhere; not a single alley knew the meaning of silence. Even the sewers below the city were plagued with the Greenskins; mostly home to the smaller castes of Orkoid species, but wriggling with life nonetheless.

The four Orks wasted no time exploring the maze of shops and stalls; Cezzy-Po was excited to find numerous squig markets, Oric and Jamz sampled something from every food and drink stall they came across, and Orlen got extremely upset when he realized his bag of teeth had been pilfered. Having nothing to buy tools with, he hung around with Cezzy-Po; she was the only one who wouldn't tell him to shut his gob and stop complaining.

By the time they were all ready to head back to the camp the stars were up; they slowly walked down the road together, not in a real hurry to return to the comparatively far less exciting camp.

Oric chewed the last of the meat off a bone before poking Orlen in the side with it. "Hur, hur, hur, poor 'ol povo Orlen didn't get ter buy nuffin. Heh, heh, heh…"

The Mek didn't like being reminded. "ah, shud yer yap 'ole," he snarled, "Least I aint a tank driver wivvout me tank."

"What? 'Ow'd yew find out?" Oric looked suspiciously at Cezzy-Po, but it was Jamz who declared being the culprit, laughing aloud.

"Har, har, it woz too much ov a funny story ter not tell someone." He smirked patting Oric on the back with his giant metal claw none too gently. "Dey all loved it! Hur, hur, hur!"

"'Oo da 'ell did yer tell?" Oric demanded, pushing Jamz' arm away roughly. "Besides Orlen?"

Jamz appeared so amused he couldn't do anything but snort for a while. Eventually, he got his snorting under control. "Oh, I fink jus' 'bout all da Snakebites."

"Yew bastard! I oughta tell 'em 'bout da time yew fell ov'r backwards inta a squig trough an' we 'ad ter git a crane ter lift yer out!"

Sensing a fight brewing between the huge Nobz, Cezzy-Po hurried ahead. Orlen took one look at Jamz and Oric, and did the same.

"Don't come inta or near da camp fightin'," Orlen shouted back to the fuming Nobz, "Or Ongrat'll burn anuver 'ole in 'is pants!"

Although the thought of Ongrat relieving himself of waagh energy was amusing to watch, Uurgrin usually got extremely cross whenever someone made Ongrat spark with waagh energy. This put a damper on the entertainment, and helped to deter such Orks as Jamz and Oric from deliberately fighting while Ongrat was around. They stayed away from the camp as Orlen had requested even though their bellows carried across for all to hear.

Cezzy-Po and Orlen headed to the camp fire where Uurgrin, Ongrat and some of the Nobz stood warming themselves and roasting meat. Despite the distance between himself and the fighting Nobz, Ongrat still had to sniff runny waagh energy back into his nose.

"Why's dey fightin'?" Uurgrin demanded as Cezzy-Po approached.

Settling herself down in front of the fire the Dok replied, "Oh, da usual fing. One inshults da uvver, an' dey gets all cranky like."

The Snakebite boss chewed on a squig leg. "Hurrr… dem two betta not be late fer da meetin'."

Less than an hour later, Uurgrin and the Nobz headed over to the demolished building to hold the second meeting. Jamz and Oric showed up on time; both were missing a couple of teeth. Jamz' mega amour saved mostly everything except his face; Oric was bruised and cut, but otherwise both Orks were fine.

When all the Nobz were silenced, Uurgrin wasted no time getting to the crux of the matter. "Alright boyz," he said looking at Oric and Jamz, "'Ave yer decided if yew'll take us to yer Boss?"

Jamz nodded. "Yeah, we'll take yer. But we aint guaranteein' dat Gotshik'll give yer a warm welcome. We's jus' showin' yer da way is all."

This didn't bother Uurgrin; he would deal with Gotshik's greeting when he came to crossing that bridge. Pleased, he promised the two Evil Sunz beer after the meeting and continued talking on. "Alright, dat's dat den. We'll set off first fing tomorrow. Now, Orlen, I got a bone ter pick wiv yew…"

Orlen didn't like the look he was getting from his Boss, and asked what was bothering him. "What iz it, boss? If it's about da wartrakk…"

"Yes Orlen, it's about dat blasted WARTRAKK!" Uurgrin's voice thundered across to the camp. "Why's it still lookin' like a 'eap of trash? Yew know I 'ate walkin', an' dat fing iz priddy good at cartin' me around! I fawt yew said yew were gonna fix it…"

"It's a bit hard ter fix it when I aint got no tools!" Orlen snapped back. "I woz gonna buy some today, but some Ork stole all me teef."

Uurgrin snorted indignantly. "Why didn't yer just borrow Brudz' tools? She's got a box ov 'em on dat piece ov junk bike."

"Brudz' an' 'er bike's been gone since dis mornin'," Orlen glared at his Boss. "Don'tcha fink I fawt ov dat?"

"Watch yer mouf Orlen, yew might need yer 'ands but yer sure az 'ell don't need yer tongue!"

Jamz and Oric looked confused. "Whadoya mean she's been missin' since dis mornin'?" The mega Nob asked, turning around to face Orlen.

"I went ter borrow 'er tools, an' me an' da Dok found a note scratched ona da fence post written by Brudz." Orlen explained, running out of patience. "We assumed she went inta town fer da day, so I went too ta buy tools. But as I already explained, some bastard stole me TEEF!"

"Why didn't yer tell us Brudz left a note an' went missin'!" Oric snarled, stepping closer to Orlen. "Me preshuss wartrakk'll nev'r get fixed at dis rate!"

Orlen felt like a piece of carrion that vultures kept picking bits off. It was one after the other of Nobz accusing him of something. "Would yer stop assuming' dat I'm ter blame fer everythin'?" He said looking around at everyone. "It aint my fault dat wartrakk's still broken, an' I aint responsible fer dat runt, so why's it suddenly my fault when she vanishes? If yer so concerned, ya shoulda put da git on a leash!"

All the Nobz began to mutter; the Snakebites didn't like two outsiders ganging up on their Mek and looked about ready to jump on Jamz and Oric.

"EV'RY ONE SHUT UP!" Uurgrin roared, spit flying from his mouth and his snake beard wobbling angrily. "I will give Orlen teef ter buy tools wiv ter fix da wartrakk. We'll delay leaving 'til da fing iz fixed. Den, we'll 'ead out as planned to da Evil Sunz' settlement. Yer lucky Ongrat aint 'ere, or I woulda cracked some 'eads togever t'night! Meetin's over, all ov yer git lost."

Unlike the last meeting, the Nobz left this one with tension hung in the air; when they all went back to camp, Ongrat's ears sparked. The Weirdboy had chosen to sit this meeting out; he knew Uurgrin was going to go off his nut about the wartrakk. He shook his head to clear the sparks and wrapped a squig skin blanket around himself to keep warm, moving back from the fire so he was shrouded in a shadow.

He watched as Cezzy-Po returned to the camp; the Dok had walked around outside the camp to see if Brudz was in a nearby building. Ongrat knew that the Dok had been unsuccessful on her search; otherwise she would have been dragging her sister back to camp by her ear.

Cezzy-Po came and sat down near Ongrat. "I like it better with dat git gone," he said as Cezzy-Po settled onto the ground.

To his surprise, she snarled at him. "Shut yer mouf, if I wanted yer opinion I woulda asked for it."

"Yew make me look like a normal Ork," Ongrat muttered.

Quick as a flash of lightening, Cezzy-Po pulled out her scalpel and swiped Ongrat across his squashed pig-like nose yelling. The sudden outburst caused waagh energy to swell within the Weirdboy; it was let out in a fart which sent dust out from around where he sat.

"I aint goin' nowhere wivout dat runt," Cezzy-Po growled at Ongrat, jabbing him with her scalpel. "Mumzy'll chuck a flip if Brudz doesn't get to da clan, an' I aint gonna be da one 'oo cops it. Yew'll 'elp me an' Jamz scour dis rotten city from sewer ter sky ter find Brudz, or I'll sick dat priddy pet snake onta ya!"

Ongrat was left completely stunned. Up until now, the Dok had been bending over backwards to please the Weirdboy. He put a hand over his bleeding nose and licked the blood which ran down his face to his lips. Sparks whizzed around his head; the Dok was clearly in a foul mood. "Who's dis Mumzy fella?" He asked, not sure what else to say.

Cezzy did not remove her scalpel while she answered Ongrat. "Mumzy iz an old girl Nob. She's so killy, Gotshik sent 'er away ter run a squig farm norf-west ov dis place. Even Jamz iz wary ov 'er. Me, Jamz, an' Brudz grew up on 'er ranch."

"Oh…" Ongrat nodded slowly. "Now I see why yer so cranky. Yew don't wanna get strangled."

"Yew could put it dat way," Cezzy replied, giving Ongrat one last glare before stowing away her scalpel.

The day before, Kargust had sent a group of bikers to investigate why the war band was late to return. He was no longer in a good mood after Mokka's dire prediction that morning. Now he sat in his hut watching his Nobz playing cards awaiting the return of his scouts – they were due any time now.

Everyone's heads turned around as Glof walked into the boss's hut; Mokka had ordered him to sing something entertaining for Kargust. His Gretchin musicians scurried in behind with their instruments and began to play an upbeat (if slightly out of tune) melody. Glof cleared his throat and began to sing.

"Dere once woz a fat git named Deg,

'Til one day 'ee shuddenly dropped dead.

Ee' croaked it wiv knives an' axes an' bullets in 'im,

An' ovuh da cliff.

'Ole Deg woz neva da brightest Ork, 'ee woz always a little dim.

'Ee shoulda paid more attenshun to 'oo ee stole from,

An' oo' 'ee sold fings to; for if 'ee took more notish,

'Ee might not 'ave passed on.

Oh dat fat git copped it gud 'n' proper,

'Ee stole me beer an' Glugbet's choppa.

Teef went missin' an' so did da pies –"

Kargust threw an empty beer bottle at Glof; it missed, smashing on the door frame. "Did I ask fer yer ta come in 'ere? No! Git out b'fore I gut yer an' dem runts too!"

The musicians fled the hut without a word; Kargust rarely ever made idle threats. Sick of waiting for his scouts, he stood up and over turned the table the Nobz were sitting at gambling, sending teef, cards, beer and food all over the stone floor.

"No more games!" he yelled angrily at them, "I want yer to get up an' tell all da clan ter get ready fer travellin'! An' Dyakka, I want yer to find Gilb-Rer an' tell 'im I wanna see 'im in me hut right NOW!"

Forgetting their scattered teeth and cards, the Nobz stood up nodding and replying, "Yes boss!" They then left to spread the word to the clan to prepare for travel.

Gilb-Rer hadn't been hard to find; he was at the pub, and on receiving the message from Dyakka walked over to Kargust's hut. Gilb-Rer was a large Ork, as big as Kargust. He wore a shiny snake skin vest and black leather pants decorated with strips of matching snake skin running down the sides. His belt and boots were also made from shiny snake skins; even his black wide brim hat, which was most strange for an Ork to wear, had a band of snake skin around it. By human standards, he looked like a pimp.

For anyone observant enough to notice Gilb-Rer's lack of scars for an Ork of his magnitude, they would have guessed right if they assumed him to be a cunning, wily character. Many an Ork described the Snakebite Boss as having similar persona to one of the Ork Gods, Mork: "cunnin' but killy".

The Boss picked up his walking staff; it was made from polished squiggoth tusk, topped with a brass replica of a snake skeleton. He walked out of the pub talking to no one.

"'Bout time yer showed up," Kargust snarled as the Snakebite boss walked in, the glass pieces crunching beneath Gilb-Rer's large leather boots.

Gilb-Rer knew what was bothering the Goff boss but played dumb. "What's got yer pants in a knot?"

The metal studs on Kargust's brow moved together as his face creased in anger. He raised his right hand which was clad in his mega-claw and pointed accusingly at Gilb-Rer. "Yew know exactly what's got me pants in a knot, yer filfy turncoat!"

Gilb-Rer feigned being offended and talked as though Kargust was making extremely ludicrous remarks. "Filfy turncoat? If yew 'ad a spore bruvver like mine, yew'd've done da same. Ee's dead now, fanks ter yer lot, an' I c'n rule da Snakebites of dis desert by meself. Now now, if yer worried I won't keep my end ov da deal, by all means, keep my lot under a close watch. But why would we want ter miss da opportunity ter plunder one ov da richest clans? We stand ter gain a lot by plunderin' da Bad Moons."

Kargust took a few moments to get everything sorted out in his mind. He hadn't formally been told that his war band were defeated, but after hearing that Mokka could no longer sense the war band's faint energy from across the desert he knew something had gone wrong. Kargust thought that perhaps Gilb-Rer had deceived him, betraying him by teaming up with Uurgrin to wipe out a good portion of his Goffs. It was the only explanation for his embarrassing failure that he could comprehend. As far as he was concerned, Uurgrin's Orks should have been easier to kill than squigs at a slaughter house.

Sensing Kargust's momentary uneasiness Gilb-Rer took the opportunity to turn the tables and accuse the Goff on not keeping his end of the deal. He laid aside his apparent ignorance to the Goffs deaths – no Ork, Boss or not, would accuse him of anything (be it a true accusation or not). He spoke in a harsh voice, staring Kargust in the eyes. "I know why yer ladz are late returnin'; I don't need no scouts ta tell me yer war band lost da fight. I really can't fathom 'ow they could – but let me tell yew right now, I 'ad _nuffin_ ter do wiv it. It aint my fault yer an incompetent Boss. Yew shoulda been dere, fightin' wiv 'em! But no, yer sit back 'ere an' 'ope fer da best."

Gilb-Rer's accusations were like sparks to gasoline; Kargust flew into a rage and ran forward, grabbing the Snakebite by his chin with his mega claw, raising his mace threateningly.

"_Are yew callin' me a coward?_" He scowled angrily, spittle spraying over Gilb-Rer's face, "Yew dare say somefin' like dat ter me again, an' I'll break yer neck and split yer 'ead open! I stayed 'ere ta make sure yew didn't try nuffin funny – I don't trust yew, yer a born traitor to ya clan! Now, we made a deal… an' I will kill Uurgrin an' iz lot. I'll hunt 'em down, ev'ry last one ov 'em."

A small knocking interrupted the dispute. An Ork biker walked in, quickly stepping away from the two Bosses when he realized they were in the middle of an argument. When he received nothing but glares, he quickly gave his report.

"It's as Mokka predicted, Boss… I'll, uh, fill yer in on da details later." The Ork then excused himself, leaving Kargust and Gilb-Rer to themselves again.

Kargust felt a slight prick in his stomach; looking down, he saw Gilb-Rer holding a brass-handled blade which had been hidden in his walking staff jabbing into his belly. Gilb-Rer whispered so no eaves droppers could hear what passed between his lips and Kargust's ears. "I want da Bad Moons' booty az much az yew, Kargust. But I don't want ter talk no more 'bout dis 'til I'm lookin' at Uurgrin's decapitated 'ead."

The Ork Boss withdrew his blade and put it back into his walking staff. Kargust still had his mega claw clamped on Gilb-Rer's chin; he removed it after glaring one last time into the Ork's eyes. Gilb-Rer dusted his vest off and walked out of the hut, watching Kargust out of the corner of his eye.

Soon after, Kargust held a meeting with his Nobz and the scouts, who had returned with bad news indeed. Everyone had been quite surprised by the report: the Snakebite settlement was pretty much demolished, all the buildings leveled – the only thing left standing were the defensive walls, which looked like they'd seen better days. Piles of burnt Ork corpses surrounded the battleground revealing that although the Snakebites no longer lived at the settlement, some still remained alive. Kargust snarled when the scouts revealed that they suspected a giant bomb of some kind had been used; he regretted not wiping Uurgrin's Meks out all at once. He realized Orlen could well have been capable of making the bomb even without his hands, leaving him furious with himself for underestimating his enemy.

It took Kargust some time to calm down and think properly. He declared to his horde that they would be leaving that afternoon to go hunt down Uurgrin and his Snakebites. Gilb-Rer and his clan were to return to their settlement in the mountains, leaving the Goffs' camp in the hands of the Gretchin and a few Runtheards. Kargust hadn't really lost… Orks can't loose. They either die, or win. And he wasn't dead yet.


	18. Mountain Hike

Chapta Seventeen: Mountain Hike

**Chapta Seventeen: Mountain Hike**

Snow sprinkled on the mountains, thrown around by a chilly wind. Although it looked pristine from a distance, three certain Imperial Guardsmen cursed the weather as they trudged across the grey slippery rocks with snow slapping them in the face.

They had been forced into the cold mountain side with nothing more than rations to last a day, three guns between them, unsuitable clothes for the icy weather, and absolutely no idea of where they actually were.

"I feel like we're in a snow globe…" Marco said sounding disheartened; they had been walking around for over two days after exiting from the five-kilometer long escape tunnel.

Sam bent over and scooped some snow up to eat. "It could be worse," she said after swallowing. "We could be in a desert with no water."

"At least a desert isn't this friggin' cold day and night!" Barthees complained, wiping his nose on his over-used hanky. "If we don't find our way back soon, we'll die from hyperthermia – if the Orks don't find us first."

As they walked on they came to a rock ledge which jutted out, forming a small shelter beneath it. Barthees ordered that they rest for a few minutes under it before climbing over.

Marco cringed. "Alright, who farted?" He asked, eyeing Barthees.

Sam smelt the stench too; when she did, she quickly put her hand over Marco's mouth and held up her index finger to her mouth demanding silence.

Barthees quietly picked his gun off the ground, whispering to Marco. "Don't make a peep, that foul smell is from an Ork – there must be some nearby."

After Marco nodded to show he understood, Sam removed her hand. "You two stay here," she whispered. "I'm going to take a peek around, to see if I can spot them."

She slipped out from under the over hang, crouching while she tried to listen for anything above the whistling wind. She heard faint noises and decided to look above the ledge. Kneeling on a rock to elevate herself, she pulled out a thin, black, snake like tube from leg pocket. It was a flexi scope: she bent it into an L shape and put one end to her eye. The other end sat just above the lip of the ledge, and she looked about.

Sam spotted the Orks almost immediately; three of the greenskins sat near a rock wall smoking cigars and drinking from flasks at the far end of the small plateau. By the way they looked they obviously didn't like being out in the weather. She observed them for a few minutes before returning to Barthees and Marco.

"There's three Orks above us on the far end of a small plateau," She whispered, her head close Barthees. "I reckon we can drop them before they even realize what the hell happened to 'em."

Barthees considered Sam's advice, but decided killing the Orks would not be the best course of action. "No, we don't know if there any other Orks nearby – killing them might draw raise their suspicions. As far as it goes, we don't want the Orks to even know there are humans on this planet."

Marco was almost beginning to think the sergeant had chosen to do something smart for a change when he added, "We'll take them hostage instead – and dispose of them where no Ork can find their bodies later. I want to find this mountain resort place the Commissar mentioned in his letter – I bet that's where the pool balls are!"

"What? No!" Marco said standing up and banging his head on the rocks above. "Ouch!"

Barthees whacked Marco in the back of the knees to make him sit down and pinched his lips closed. "Shut up, do you want those Orks to come over here?"

A plan to capture the Orks formed in the sergeant's head. "Wait… yes, that's a good idea." He muttered to himself. "Alright you two, listen up. Here's what we're going to do…"

The three Deff Skulls puffed slowly on their cigars. They wore thick fur-lined jackets and leather caps with ear flaps. Their pants were baggy but thick, and their boots came up to their knees. Like most Death Skulls Orks they had blue war paint painted on their skin; the three Orks had painted the backs of their hands, and vertical lines on their faces.

Gilda, the larger of the three, snorted noisily and spat on the ground. "Hur, dis sentry stuff iz borin'."

"Nyeh, right on Gilda." Spoke a small whiny-voiced Ork named Twik. "An' it's zoggin' cold. I 'ate dis stinkin' shnow."

"Oi, yew two, d'ya 'ear dat?" The third Ork, Jinshak, said lifting one of his cap's ear flaps.

Gilda and Twik did like wise; they heard a faint tapping sound.

"I wonda what dat noise iz?" Gilda spoke. "Go an' check it out Twik, might be them Goffs."

"What? Why me? Can't Jinshak do it, ee looks more capable." Twik replied. He quickly decided to do as he was told when Gilda went to pull his shoota from his pocket. "Fine, fine, I'm on me way. No need ta get all grouchy."

Twik walked towards the source of the noise, towards the ledge. As he reached the edge, it stopped. He looked about but saw nothing. He started to turn around, when something grabbed him by the ankle and pulled him over the edge.

Jinshak laughed aloud at what he assumed to be Twik tripping over. "Hur! Hur! Hur! Da idiot slipped off da rocks. Ee's such a dimwit."

Sam held the barrel of her shotgun to the back of the Ork's head, with a foot firmly on his back; Twik lay belly down on the rocks where he had been thrown. "You make one sound and I'll blow your ugly mug right off of your shoulders, understood? And keep your hands where I can see 'em."

Twik whimpered and the barrel prodded his head harder. He hadn't seen his attacker, but he knew that was no Ork voice. He felt someone grab his shoota and his knife, and remove them from him. He dug his claws into the rocks angrily; but he dared not move or say anything. A shadow fell over Twik, and out of the corner of his eye he saw a pair of neat black boots.

"Ew, he smells, do I have to?" Marco complained.

Sam snapped orders at Marco quietly, without taking her eyes off Twik. "Yes, you do! Now shut up and search his pockets. He might have concealed weapons. Don't worry, if he tries anything funny I'll splatter his brains all over the mountain side."

"Comforting…" Marco muttered and got to work. Twik scowled in silence as he felt two small hands rummaging through his clothes.

Marco emptied an assortment of items out of Twik's pockets; two cigars, a flask of some foul smelling liquor, strips of meat jerky, a few teeth, bullets, a lighter and some coloured stones.

"Why does an Ork have stones and teeth in his pockets?" Marco wondered aloud.

Twik couldn't keep his silence for long; he growled, "Coz…" when his head hadn't been shot to pieces, he continued, "… I can't by nuffin wovvout teef now, can I? Nah. An' why does I need excuses ter keep fings I like da look ov?"

"Oh how cute," Sam said sarcastically. "Now, Ork, I want you to do call your two buddies over; tell them you found something to eat. Say anything else, and well… I'm sure you know what'll happen."

The captive Ork decided he would rather risk his companions' lives than his own, so he complied. "Oi, Gilda, Jinshak, I found some critters ta eat down 'ere! Come over, I need a 'and capturin' 'em."

Twik was quickly dragged underneath the overhang where Barthees took over monitoring him, so Sam could do the honors of capturing the last two Orks.

Jinshak immediately got up; he was sick of eating dried meat strips. "Dat musta been what woz makin' da noise; some animal. Maybe dere's a nice fat squig or two." He said, walking towards the ledge. Gilda followed in silence; he grinned in anticipation of a hot squig roasted over a fire.

"DON'T TWITCH A FINGER OR I'LL BLOW YOUR GOD FORSAKEN BRAINS OUT!"

Both Orks looked bewildered down at the human who had a shotgun and a laser rifle aimed at their heads. Jinshak made the mistake of moving his hand towards his pocket; it was the last thing he ever did.

BLAM!

Gilda stood rigid still; he didn't even attempt to wipe Jinshak's brains from his eyes. The dead Ork's body crumpled and fell like a sack of potatoes off the ledge, landing in front of Sam with a thump.

She cocked her shotgun with one arm and aimed it at Gilda so he was now looking down the barrels of two guns, while Barthees scolded her for killing the Ork.

"Emperor forbid!" He said sounding exasperated. "Sam, I told you not to kill the Orks! We need them – _alive!_"

Sam rolled her eyes. "What was I supposed to do? Let the turd pull out his gun? I don't think so. Besides, we really only need one of them."

"Yeah, alright," Barthees replied sounding reluctant to agree. "But we'll have to dispose of his body some place where no other Orks will find it."

Twik's stomach growled hungrily. Careful not to move, he said, "Why don't'cha be a nice oomie an' let me an' Gilda eat da 'eadless sucka? I'm sick ov eatin' tough squig meat."

Shaking his head, Barthees replied, "No can do, the rest of your kind would smell his rotten carcass roasting from a hundred miles away. Might as well send them all invitations to come here if we do that."

Twik smirked. "Oo' said we 'ave ter cook 'im?"

An hour later the two Orks were picking the last of the meat off Jinshak's bones; the Imperial Guardsmen learnt their names, but rarely bothered using them. Marco had searched Gilda and Jinshak's corpse and had stripped them of everything except clothes. Now the private sat under the ledge trying to chew on some of the meat jerky he had confiscated from the Orks. Most of it had been too hard and cut his gums open, but he found a darker piece which seemed softer.

"Finally, something edible." He muttered, taking a bite. His face screwed up with disgust. "God, if this is what squig tastes like, you Orks live a pitiful life."

Gilda and Twik looked around, their faces smothered in blood. Gilda laughed hoarsely, "Dat aint meat, dat's my lucky dried squig shit shaped like a choppa, hur! Hur! Hur!"

Marco threw the dried squig scat away and spat out what he was chewing. "Phaaw! Bleh! Where's some snow!"

Sam and Barthees couldn't help but laugh at Marco's bad luck; they watched as he scrambled for the nearest pile of snow and shoveled it into his mouth, trying to clean out the filth.

"That kid never learns," Barthees said picking up a cigar from the Orks' pile of contraband items. "So, what exactly do you Orks put in these things?"

Gilda's eyes widened when he saw the sergeant ready to light up one of his cigars. "If yaw dirty pink lips even take one whiff ov dat fing, I'll rip yer tongue outta yer mouf!"

"No you won't fat chops," Sam said wobbling the shotgun slightly to remind the Orks she was still watching them very carefully, "Or you'll end up like your pal there."

A pungent smell wafted from the cigar as Barthees lit it up; he put it to his mouth, and inhaled a sample of the smoke it produced. His eyes squinted as he exhaled, a spout of grayish black smoke billowing out of his mouth and nostrils.

"Holy horse shit!" He said looking at the cigar with awe. "Whoever said Orks are incapable of making anything perfect needs to try one of these. I wonder what their alcohol tastes like? It must be godly if their cigars are this awesome."

"Not that I care," Sam said crossing her legs, "but knowing Orks, whatever you're smoking, it's bound to be a little more than bad for your health."

"Oh, c'mon, you'll take that all back once you try this." Barthees reached out with the cigar and held it close to Sam's face. She gave him a flat stare. "Just one chuff," he said cheerfully to her.

Unenthusiastically, Sam put the cigar to her mouth and breathed in. A tear welled in her eye, and she exhaled. "That's…"

"Fantastic?"

"I was more or less thinking insane."

Barthees nodded as he smoked the Ork cigar again; he knew Sam was impressed with it. He saw Twik eyeing his cigar grudgingly. "Twit," he spoke, "you want one?"

Twik nodded feverishly; he was addicted to cigars. Gilda licked his lips clean of blood, looking murderously at the smaller Ork.

"You can both have a cigar if you answer my questions." Barthees said to them, holding up two fat cigars, and waving them.

"C'n we 'ave a sip from our bottles, too?" Twik asked, eyeing the two small flasks in the contraband pile.

Gilda walloped Twik over the back of the head with his hand, snarling at him angrily. "Ya stupid git! Now dat oomie'll drink all our booz! What'll we 'ave ter drink then, eh? Water? Unlikely! Water's 'orrible tastin'!"

"Settle down Gilda, I'll leave you some of whatever's in those flasks if you do what I tell you."

"I don't take orders from oomies, 'specially since yer smaller den me!" Gilda snapped back, but keeping his distance.

Sam raised her voice to get Ork's attention. "You sure as hell _will_ if you want to live long enough to smoke and drink alcohol beyond today. I can always plug you, and let Twik have it all."

"Fine!" Gilda kicked Jinshak's bones, scattering them over the rocks. "But yew betta not be lyin', coz if yew iz, dere aint nuffin on dis planet dat'll stop me from throtellin' yer, shoota or no shoota!"

The Orks answered every question Barthees and Sam asked them. They found out the location of an Ork settlement which sounded suspiciously similar to the resort mentioned in the Commissar's letter. There was no way to be sure if the Orks were lying or not, but by blackmailing them with cigars, alcohol, and a gun in their face, Barthees doubted the Orks would lie (completely).

In exchange for guiding the Imperial Guardsmen to the Ork settlement, Barthees offered the Orks more cigars and alcohol. Twik eagerly accepted, but Gilda was less enthusiastic. A quick burst of laser to the Ork's fat gut made him more willing to comply.

Barthees wasted no more time; they cleaned the camp up, throwing Jinshak's bones over a cliff and wrapping the contrabands in the dead Ork's jacket for Marco to carry. The Orks lead the way with Barthees and Sam at their back, guns at the ready. Some hours had passed by the time Marco got sick of being told to 'shut the hell up asshole' by Barthees; be walked up beside Sam, and tried talking to the Orks instead.

"How many Orks are there at this settlement?" He quizzed them.

"More'n enough ter kill yew fwree," Gilda replied sardonically. "Keepin' yew lot alive wasn't part ov da deal, jus' rememba dat."

"Someone's got a bad case of assholitis…" Sam mumbled; she watched as Marco got closer to Twik but said nothing to stop him.

Tapping Twik on the shoulder carefully, Marco asked, "How old are you?"

"Firty sumfin'," Twik replied. He didn't enjoy talking to Marco. "What's it ter yew, 'oomie?"

Marco shrugged. "I was just curious. Say, do you Orks have a leader or sorts? You know, like an Emperor or a Prime Minister?"

Twik's nose screwed up with confusion. "Iz a prime whastit some kinda meat? An' neva 'eard on an empowrer. But we do 'ave a Boss. 'Ee's da biggest Ork yew'll eva lay yer meager little eyes on, heh. An' 'ee's real killy, too! 'Ee c'n rip apart just 'bout anyfin'. Yep, yew'll likely die if yer goes anywhere nears 'im. Bit strange lookin' too, if yer ask me. Wears all sorts of weird fings – might 'ave sumfin' ter do wiv da fence post permanently shtuck in iz big 'ead."

"You Orks always dress weird," Sam said, wondering what an Ork would class as 'strange lookin''. "What makes your Boss different?"

Twik was about to explain when Gilda looked over around at his captors, yelling "I need ter 'ave a piss!"

"Piss as in alcohol?" Barthees asked holding up a flask.

"No," Gilda replied stopping in his tracks, holding up the whole group. "Piss az in I want ter water da flowers. Now, can I do dat wivout getting' shot?"

Barthees looked across to Marco. "Did you search their pants for weapons like I asked?"

Marco tried to look convincing, but his sudden interest in a rock by his feet gave away he was fibbing. "Yes, of-of course…"

"You lieing turd! Why the hell didn't you do it when I asked?" Barthees shouted, his face going red. "What if he's got a knife down them pants? Or a pistol, or something?"

Gilda started to bob lightly on his toes; he really needed to relieve himself. "I don't 'ave no weapons shoved up me butt, so c'n yer just let me pee? I don't care if yer 'ave ter watch me, yer paranoid oomie!"

"Okay," Barthees agreed heartily. "Marco, you can do the honors, since you ignored my orders. Sam, you mind Twit."

"It's Twik, not twit." The small Ork grunted, but no one listened or cared.

Memories of his first horrific experience of Orks came flooding back to Marco; he fell to his knees, and dropped the jacket full of contrabands. "Noooooooo! Nooo-ho-ho-ho… Why me? Sam's better with a gun! I'm just a poor mentally scared private with no courage whatsoever!"

"You mean you're a coward?" Barthees asked to confirm Marco's sudden rant.

"Realistically speaking, yes." Marco replied with a nod. He put on a puppy face for the sergeant, but little did he know Barthees hated dogs.

With an evil smirk, Barthees replied, "Well, that's an even better reason for you to do this; it'll toughen you up my pathetic little bed-wetting comrade."

"I don't wet the bed!" Marco shouted back.

"You do too, I read your file."

Sam looked at Marco with a raised eyebrow. Marco shrugged back, saying, "I told you before I have a weak bladder…"

Gilda, whom everyone had forgotten about, had his knees crossed, trying to hold his urine in. "STOP TALKIN' 'BOUT BLADDERS 'N' BED WETTIN'!"

Sam threw Marco his las-rifle. "Go on now before he wets himself, but make sure you can see Gilda's hands at all times. I don't want to be walking around with an Ork that wet his pants."

Reluctantly, Marco walked over and stood a few feet in front of Gilda; the Ork practically ripped his pants off, not caring who could see him, and sighed with relief as he let it flow.

Watching Gilda urinate made Twik want to go to the toilet as well. "I wanna pee now too," he said.

"Fine, fine, you can go after Gilda." Barthees said to the Ork, and ordered Marco to mind Twik as well.

Once the Orks had finished, Marco feinted and fell backwards; his helmet saved him from cracking his head on the rocks.

Barthees shook his head. "That boy has lived a sheltered life."

"Either that, or the ammonia got to him." Sam said pinching her nose. "That makes cat pee smell like roses."

As the light faded the band made camp inside a small cave. Barthees lit a small fire with a solid fuel tab to boil some water in his kidney cup. He put the jerky in and soften it up – although it looked highly unappetizing, they had no choice but to eat it, or starve.

"Is there anything else to eat?" Marco whinged as he peered down into the cup. "That stuff smells."

"I could cut you a schnitzel from the blimp's belly," Barthees indicated with his thumb to Gilda. "Or would you rather this?"

Marco decided the jerky would be nicer. "That…." He said, looking glumly at the jerky.

Stirring the boiling beef jerky concoction, Barthees replied, "Good, now go and help Sam watch those Orks. If she stares at them any harder, she'll burn a hole through their heads."

Tired and hungry, Marco slumped down beside Sam, and leant against the wall of the cave. She handed him his laser rifle.

"Don't fall asleep just yet Marco," She said keeping her shot gun trained on the Orks, who sat on the other side of the cave. "We don't want to let our guard down."

"I feel tired, but I don't want to go to sleep – I'll have nightmares." He explained with a shudder. "Barf is evil."

Across the other side of the cave, the Orks snickered. Gilda flexed his arms, laughing at Marco. "Hur, hur, what's wrong runt, did my ripplin' muscles make yer realize just 'ow wimpy yew are?"

"The only thing that I saw ripple," Marco replied indignantly, "Was your fat rolls!"

Twik fell sideways cackling out loud; Gilda just sat frozen on the spot with his arms still bent in the air, and his jaw slackened. Eventually he came to his senses, and grabbed Twik by the throat shaking him like a doll.

"What yew laughin' at yer mangy git? I oughta feed yer ta da Gretchin! Lousy runt!"

Twik tried to pry Gilda's hands off his throat but he couldn't even loosen one of the Ork's fingers. Eventually, Sam had to intervene to stop Twik from being strangled to death.

"Let him go or I'll blow your arm of at the elbow." She threatened, aiming her shot gun; she wasn't bluffing.

Gilda looked at Sam, releasing Twik. He threw the smaller Ork down hard, warning Twik not to mock him again. "Laugh at me again Twik, an' I'll snap yer arms off an' stuff 'em down yer froat!"

Barthees called over to Sam and Marco, "The meat's done; it's soft but really chewy. Once we're finished, I'm going to put out the fire." He brought the kidney cup over, and handed it to Sam. "I've had my share, you eat half of that then hand it to Marco. I'll take over minding the Orks while you eat."

"Do we get some, hmm?" Twik asked, rubbing his throat.

"No, you ate an entire Ork between you earlier." Barthees replied. "Go to sleep or something."

Twik didn't look too surprised to be denied more food; he didn't expect the humans to be that nice but it was always worth a shot. "Sleep? Huh… I aint tired yet. Stop mutherin' me, 'oomie."

"Alright, stay up as long as you desire, but we're hitting the road as soon as the sun rises." Barthees warned the Orks. "I don't care how tired you are."

The night went too fast for Marco's liking; he had taken first picket and slept like a log afterwards, curled up in a small crevice by the cave wall. Rays of the sun which entered the cave were mellowed down by the curtain of mist outside; Marco woke up when the cave began to light up.

He blinked open his eyes to get rid of his fuzzy vision, and stretched his tired sore body. When he realized that neither the Orks nor Barthees were in the cave, he panicked.

"They left without me!" He said pulling himself to his feet and brushing concealed sleep from the corners of his eyes.

"Settle down there Marco," Sam's assertive voice came from further down the cave. "Nobody's left you behind. Barf's out the front of the cave with the Orks."

It took a few moments for Marco to calm down; his brain was slow to respond while he was still waking up. "Oh… okay. Why's he out there with the Orks? What if they jump on him?"

Sam walked over to Marco, doing up her fly. "It's alright, he has the shotgun and the laser rifle with him. I've got his flamethrower with me, though," She said patting the strap over her shoulder.

"Did you just… pee down there?" Marco looked around Sam to the back of the cave.

"No, I was just stuffing all my pockets with dry moss to help keep me warm. You should do the same." She replied, patting her somewhat padded legs. "I aint freezin' my goalies off for no one. Come on, I'll help you find some."

It didn't take them long to find enough dry moss to stuff all of Marco's pockets with. At first he felt a bit uncomfortable, but it didn't take him long to feel the effects of the insulation and warm up.

"It's not much, but it'll help to keep the chill off you a bit," Sam said as she dusted Marco down. "Anything's better than nothing."

"Let's go meet Barf outside," Marco replied. "He's probably sick of waiting for us."

Sam's lips pursed together. "No, you just wait in here. He'll come get us when he's ready."

Marco didn't understand; what was Barthees doing, he wondered. "Is he interrogating the Orks? If he's going to kill one, tell him not to kill Twik – Gilda's such an asshole. He grinned and winked at me yesterday when –"

"Marco, shut up." Sam flicked a rock at his head. "And wait for him to return."

"Ow! That hurt…"

Barthees was interrogating the Orks… sort of. He knew Orks wouldn't care if they got their nipples burnt or a pine cone shoved up their butt – Orks were tough. And threatening them with a gun would only work so far. He had a much more effective method of getting information from the two Orks held captive – bribery.

Twik shook his head like a dog as he exhaled a cloud of smoke, making a noise like a blow fly. "Zzzz!"

Gilda coughed and spat out a whap of lumpy phlegm. "Huurrr, what yer call dis stuff 'gain?"

The mist outside the cave was not actually mist. It was smoke, and lots of it.

"It's called a joint, and the plant you're smoking is neither tobacco nor that weird fungus stuff you fellas use." Barthees lit up another one for Twik. "The plant has many names, but we'll just stick to weed, shall we?"

The larger Ork nodded with a smile reaching from ear to pointy ear. "Yeh, dis weed stuff, real good. Dey shud burn dis at da alters ov Gork an' Mork! Yeah… dey'd like dat, dey sheer wud, hur, hur. Maybe dis woz a gift from Gork an' Mork? Yeah… yeah… dat seems roight. Hur… hur… oi, Twik, stop chewin' on rocks, yer nev'r-endin' garbage can. Yeah… garbage..."

Twik looked up at Gilda, with stones falling out of his mouth, and the joint balancing in the corner of his mouth precariously. "Whozat? Eh? Nyeh. I'm 'ungry! Lickin' da rocks 'elps me fink I'm eatin' somefin' joocy, like a squig pie… piiieee…"

Barthees laughed quietly to himself; stoned Orks were entertaining to listen to and watch, he decided. "Alright you two, we've got to get moving if we want to ever reach your camp. But, there's just one thing I want to ask you before we go… do you know what pool balls are?"

Both Orks didn't have a clue, so Barthees filled them in. This seemed to spark some kind of recognition in Twik's head.

"Oh, I seened somefin' like dat, yeah…" He said nodding puffing on his joint. "Seen 'em 'round da Boss's neck, hur, hur! 'Ee's a real mad Ork, 'ee iz. Never tick dat one off. One moment 'ee's laughin' wiv da boyz, next fing yer know 'ee's gnawin' on dere 'ead like a chew toy, heh heh… yeh."

Barthees had stopped listening to Twik at 'Seen 'em 'round da Boss's neck'. He stood still, eyes wide and brows furrowed in worry and shock. "What's this thing around your Boss's neck? Describe it to me."

Gilda took over this time, talking long and slow. "Oh, dey jus' like yew said, yeah. Cullaful, rownd… shiny… 'ard az teef. It's iz fav'rite new neckl'ce, hur, hur… yeah, 'ee thumps anyone 'oo touches 'em. 'Ee reckonz 'ee woz given 'em by Gork an' Mork one night, when 'ee woz gazin' at da stars…yeah. 'Ee says dat da neckl'ce iz a 'oly relic wiv speshal powers, yeeaaah…"

The Commissar had _really_ done it this time. Barthees seethed that dodgy old codger with the power to send a man to his doom with the flick of his white-gloved wrinkly old hand. First the pool table… then a mountain hike in uncharted territory… and now, a crazy Ork Waaghboss who thought pool balls were the holy grail? He wasn't going to let the Commissar win this one.

Barthees dug the two plastic bags out of his ammo pouch. "See these, boys?" He said holding up the bags for the Orks to see. "This one is the stuff ready to smoke. This other bag contains enough seeds to grow a forest of the stuff. If you can – in anyway possible – get those pool balls in my hands, I'll give you _all_ of this."

The two Orks dropped their joints stunned, starring at the bags.


	19. Crossed Wires

Chapta Eighteen: Crossed Wires

**Chapta Eighteen: Crossed Wires**

Say of Da Day: _"FER TANKABELL!" – Oric the Skarboy._

Squigopolis was a large city, big enough to lose a squiggoth in. This made tracking the runway Mek rather hard and tedious. Cezzy-Po, Jamz, Oric and Ongrat were trying everything they could think of to find Brudz. But it was hopeless.

"Maybe we c'd bait 'er ter come to us wiv some nice new tools." Oric suggested, knowing how passionate (or rather savage) the young Mek was when it came to hand tools. "An' den trap 'er in a net or sumfin'. Yeah?"

Cezzy-Po's mood hadn't gotten any better since the previous day. "Where ya gonna git tools from, eh? Orlen? 'Ee's still buyin' stuff, an' aint gonna lend us none – 'ee's gotta fix dat ugly fing, an' 'ee can't do it when 'ee's lendin' tools out!."

"It aint ugly!" Oric creamed, "IT'S MY BOOTIFUL WARTRAK!"

A giant metal claw clouted Oric over the head. "Oi, watch yer temper! ONGRAT'S 'ERE!" Jamz shouted; he wasn't helping the situation any.

"All ov yer jus' stop yer arguin', unless yer want me ta blow sumfin' up!" Ongrat snapped, his guts growling ominously with waagh energy. He was unusually clad in squig-skin body amour; he didn't like walking around the city bare-chested and open to a knife stabbing. "If yer all be calm, I might be able ter try an' sense Brudz - if she's angry, shoutin', or doing sumfin' to stir me 'ead a bit, might be possible. But with dis many Orks, we'll 'ave ter walk around a lot… I'll prob'ly only sense 'er if she's close."

"Dat's a shtupid idea!" Jamz grumbled. "It'd be easier jus' ter sick some squigs onta 'er trail. I hate walkin'!"

The four Orks went silent; Jamz suddenly realized that what he suggested was actually doable – this was Squigopolis after all, the squig capitol of the country!

And so that became plan A – Squig Sniffers.

Plan A started off well: they hired a Squig Herder who trained savage squigs. According to the Squig Herder, his squigs could sniff out anything – including stolen goods. After the squigs got Brudz scent from the fence post, they quickly ran in pursuit of the Mek's scent. Then things began to go bad.

The squigs ran down the streets; it wasn't so bad until they reached the inner city, and the squigs ran riot through pubs, Mek shops, casinos, street stalls… and just about everywhere a new comer might go to take a look around. Bozd, the Squig Herder, had to restrain his squigs after several threats from shop owners and city dwellers to eat them – some even threatened to eat Bozd if he didn't stop his squigs from knocking over bar stools and ravaging rickety market stalls.

Despite the plan's failure, the four Orks didn't feel demoralized – quite the opposite it turned out. They now knew there was a good chance Brudz was still checking out the city – no Ork could explore it in one day alone. It didn't take too long for the Dok to come up with what sounded like an easy, doable, plan.

"Let's ask all da Meks 'round 'ere if dey know where Brudz iz." She said, sitting down on the edge of the road to rest her legs. "If da Squigs' noses were anyfin' ter go by, she's visited a few workshops – she might even be in one ov 'em."

They split up into teams: Jamz and Oric went one way, and Cezzy-Po and Orlen went the other. The four Orks agreed to meet at a nearby pub in one hour's time to have lunch.

However, the 'easy, doable, plan' was by far _not_ easy and proved rather difficult. None of the Meks wanted anything to do with anyone who wasn't at their garages for business – and those who saw Ongrat the Weirdboy walking in their direction quickly locked up their workshops; apparently Weirdboys were not favored customers of the Meks in Squigopolis.

Jamz and Oric struck out on a better note; Jamz' amour seemed to attract every Mek's attention – they all wanted to do stuff to it. The Meks answered his questions (mostly out of fear of losing a potential customer), but Jamz soon became weary of their constant badgering and his patience was already thinner than human skin.

He didn't want a new choppa – he liked his own giant cleaver very much.

He didn't want a grot oiler – that's what his sister was for.

He didn't want his amour repainted blue – red was much faster thank you.

He didn't want a new mega-claw – his was lucky.

And he didn't want to be asked any more questions – so he threw a mega tantrum and went rampant like a squiggoth in an Ork camp (squish! ROOOAR!).

After being thrown out (it took four big Meks to deal with Jamz and Oric) the Tam'urt Nobz decided to retire to the pub early. They were surprised to see Cezzy-Po and Ongrat there.

"Oi! I fawt yew two were meant ta be walkin' 'round!" Jamz growled angrily; he didn't like slackers. "Lazy gits!"

Ongrat burped, put his beer down and replied, "Yeah well, I c'd say da same ter yew – yaw meant ta be out dere too. An' we 'ad troubles, anyway. Stupid Meks would eiver lock 'emselves in when dey saw me, or dey wouldn't say nuffin unless we gave 'em a few teef! Lousy bums."

"Nuver fungus tonic 'ere… an' make it snappy, or I'll get me scalpels out!" Cezzy-Po sat nearby at the bar. She enjoyed the variety of alcohol being served. "Oi Jamz, why didn't yer jus' beat da infermashun outta 'em? Yer big enough!"

Jamz' curled his lower lip in resentment at Cezzy-Po's remark. "I DID yew fik 'ead! But dere woz fo- "

"Forty ov 'em." Oric spoke loudly drowning out Jamz. "Yeah… forty, aint dat right, Jamz? Forty… yep. Forty big 'uns. All wiv nasty lookin' spanners an' a whole mob ov Burna Boyz by dere side! Forty…"

It took Jamz a moment to realize what Oric was saying. He looked about shiftily as if he were making sure no witnesses were around to deny their claims. "Oh… yeah, forty… NOW SOMEBODY GIT ME A BEER!"

During their lunch break the Orks brain stormed their way to another plan. They had little success trying to track Brudz down, so they decided to try and get _her_ to come to _them_.

"Right then," Cezzy-Po was going over the strategy one more time with the others. "Ongrat, yew buy da vehicle since yaw da richest – we aint actually gonna race so it can be as crap as yer like. Jamz an' Oric, yew two go 'round yellin' at da top ov yer lungz dat an Ork 'as challenged Brudz to a race, an' ter git ta Pig Shquare at sun down. Even if she don't 'ear it, 'opefully some Orks she may 'ave talked ter will badger 'er inta goin'. No sensible Ork turns down a challenge in front ov uvvers. Once we see 'er, we grabs 'er. Dis plans bound ter work!"

"An' what're yew gonna do?" Oric asked, not liking the way the tasks were distributed.

"Me? I's gonna do da most important fing ov all – fink ov anuver plan incase dis one fails… again."

Jamz spat a bone onto the floor. "I fawt yew said da plan would work! Why's yer need ta fink ov anuver one, den?"

"I aint Gork or Mork!" Cezzy-Po snapped back, "I can't guarantee nuffin! An' if da uvver plans are anyfin' ter go by, I say finking ov anuver plan's a good idea. Now… shall we get started? Or do I 'ave ter stab someone?"

By late afternoon Jamz, Oric and Cezzy-Po were waiting at Pig Square for Brudz to accept the challenge. Cezzy-Po had her tranquilizers ready incase she needed to sedate her spore sister, and stop her from escaping. A surprising amount of spectators had gathered (mostly bikers), chattering and counting their teeth – many were interested in making bets. Ongrat showed up a short time later, after searching for hours for something to buy for the supposed race. He walked through the crowd until he reached the other three.

"An' what da _hell_ iz dat!" Cezzy-Po glared angrily at what Ongrat had bought. "If I said ta by a pig, I woulda said BUY A PIG! Are yew deaf, or jus' shtupid?"

The boar grunted and nosed about the pavement looking for scraps. Ongrat held it's reigns in one hand. "It runs, don't it?" he shrugged. "An' like yew said, we aint gonna actually race, iz we?"

"Maybe so, but do ya really fink she'll show up when she realizes da 'opposition' 'as a PIG fer a ride? Even da uvver Orks'll walk away when dey realizes da 'race' iz gonna be b'tween a pig an' a motor bike!" Cezzy looked angrily at the boar which stood just below her shoulders in height. Quick as a flash the Dok stabbed one of her tranquilizer syringes into its neck and emptied the contents – it slumped to the ground before it could retaliate. "Go an' see if one ov da Orks'll lend yer a bike fer a fee, Ongrat."

Unwilling to disagree with the Dok while she still had one tranquilizer at hand, the Weirdboy walked off to ask the bikers for a lend of their bikes. The anticipation of a race from the surrounding Orks made Ongrat twitchy with Waagh energy; he tried to release it as discreetly as possible so the Orks wouldn't notice – even so, he had very little luck trying to borrow one.

Ongrat approached the first Ork biker. "Oi, would yer rent yer bike ter me? My ride broke down an' I gotta race…"

"Get real, why'd I lend me bike to a twit 'oo can't even look after 'iz own?"

Failing, he went to the next. "Would yer –"

"No, you can't 'ave me hat!"

"I wasn't going to ask you fer ya hat…" He moved on, deciding it was for the better. "Would ya rent yer bike fer a nice sum ov teef?"

The next Ork, a Death Skull clan member, was as ugly as he was prejudice. "A Snakebite? Ride me bike? Hardly likely. Do yew even know what a wheel iz? Hur, hur, hur! Yew lot're prob'ly still inventin' it."

The insults and refusals covered the entire visible light spectrum. Ongrat was quickly growing short of temper, and finding it increasingly difficult to resist the temptation to use some of the Waagh energy on the Ork bikers. He looked across to the other side of the Square as a big Mek arrived with yet more bikers; the group didn't appear to belong to any particular clan he knew of.  
"Oo's da challenger?" The big Mek asked, combing the crowd with his cybork eyes.

Cezzy-Po called out the Mek, "Why do ya wanna know?"

The Mek's head turned and he trained his cybork eyes on the Dok. "Coz it's me business ta know. Huurrrr…"

Jamz and Oric were about to protest when Cezzy hushed them, whispering, "Let me talk to 'im, 'ee might know sumfin'."

Agreeing, the two Nobz let her wander over the big Mek. "'Ello there, you look like a smart Ork. Why don't we chat a bit away from da crowd, I might 'ave somefin' ter say dat may benefit yew."

The big Mek paused to think for a moment. After seeing no harm in talking to the Dok, he nodded. "Alright, but not too far. Jus' over dere."

Once the pair was out of earshot of the biker mob Cezzy-Po whispered to the big Mek, "Do yew know an Evil Sunz Ork named Brudz? She 'az a smashed up bike, an' iz runty lookin'."

Leaning closer, the Mek replied, "Dat depends on whevver yew've got some spare teef…"

"I 'ave somefin' ter offer dat might be more appealin' to yew den some teef." Cezzy-Po pulled out a few medical instruments. "I couldn't 'elp but notice yer 'ead looks awfully cold up dere, surrounded by all dose metal chunky bits yer got screwed onta yer face. 'Ave yew ever 'eard ov a shquig 'air transplant? Latest medical break frew, ya know…"

Big Mek Shilf's workshop was silent except for the clicking of a ratchet and the clinking of metal. It was a large work shop located on the far side of Squigopolis in the industrial sector. Shilf had left the place with a skeleton crew to fend off anyone who thought breaking in would be a good idea.

Brudz was the only Mek left in the workshop; everyone else besides some of the Burna Boyz went to Pig Square. She had paid Shilf handsomely (with the teef stolen from Orlen) to use his workshop to fix her bike – parts and all. The Big Mek had allowed her to do so only under the conditions she was watched at all times, to make sure she didn't try anything 'funny'. This was no concern to her and agreed; ever since, she had worked feverishly to restore her bike, with little food and almost no sleep.

She had been around to many other Mek workshops but either they were too busy to lend tools or were far too pricy – she suspected that once they realized she wanted to fix the bike on her own, no of the Meks wanted her around. Shilf was the first Mek to allow her to rent the tools and work on her bike by her self. His fee wasn't the only thing appealing about Shilf's workshop; ever since arriving Brudz felt quite comfortable and considered asking if she could stay. She knew she would still have to follow orders from the bigger Orks, but she felt like she was on the same wavelength as the other Orks, and everyone seemed understood each other. Not even the squig ranch felt as homely as this.

Glim the Burna Boy sat on a bench near where Brudz was working; he was a young Ork, about the same size as the Mek girl. He kept flicking the flame of his burna on and off. "Yew got anythin' ya need cuttin' again?" He asked sounding bored.

Brudz shook her head. "I already told ya matey, da structure's all good now. I jus' need ta put da guts ov it back on, den paint it. Why dontcha light da furnace? It's gettin' chilly."

Having nothing else to do Glim got up and walked to the furnace; he opened its large metal doors and began to throw chunks of wood into the bottom. Glim used his burna to light it up, and had it roaring in no time. "I wish dere were more furnaces," he grumbled as he walked back over and sat on the bench.

"Oi, Glim buddy, do ya fink Shilf'd let me stay 'ere ta work for 'im?" Brudz asked, without looking up from her job. "I like it 'ere… much better dan bein' wiv dat uvver lot I told yer about."

"If yer leave yer clan he might," Glim replied with a shrug. "Shilf don't like 'avin' clan members in 'iz work shop. Says it causes problems wiv da customers."

The clicking ratchet stopped briefly. Brudz shuffled through the tool box looking for another end fitting. "Oh… well, that's alright… would 'ee let me ride me bike still?"

"Oh yeah, 'course 'ee will!" Glim laughed. "Lots of 'iz trainee Meks ride bikes an' fings. 'Ee don't mind, so long az yer bike or trukk's in good nick; 'ee don't want 'iz Meks gettin' a bad reputation for shoddy vehicles, see?"

Brudz understood. She clipped a new head to her ratchet, and started tightening another bolt. The doors to the work shop opened; Brudz froze when she heard a familiar voice that she didn't want to ever hear again.

"So, da git's 'ere, is she?" Ongrat snarled. "Yew betta not be pullin' a swifty on us Shilf."

Cezzy-Po sniffed the air. "If she aint 'ere den Shilf won't get 'iz squig 'air transplant, simple az dat. An' stop bein' so grumpy, you ugly git."

An argument broke out between Ongrat and Cezzy-Po; Shilf ignored the pair and stood waiting for them to be quiet.

Alarmed, Brudz grabbed Glim's shin whispering, "Don't let 'em take me Glim! I wants ta stay 'ere! I'll let ya do all da cuttin' for me whenever I gots stuff dat needs cuttin'!"

The thin blue flame some burna nozzles produced was ultra hot, and able to cut through inch-thick steel like a knife through butter. Burna Boyz who had such a nozzle found any excuse to use it, and often leant their services to Meks for no more than a few fungus beers.

"Alright, alright. Quick, follow me. We'll disguise yew." Glim led Brudz across the work shop to an equipment room; he threw her a welding face shield, overalls, and a pair of old boots.

Brudz tossed the overalls on over her clothes and ripped her boots off to replace them with the ones Glim provided. The boots were a bit big, and she had to roll the sleeves up on the overalls to fit properly, but it was better than nothing. Glim snorted a few laughs as he watched her adjusting the large overalls, knowing the young Mek was touchy about her size.

"Alright, let's go blend in wiv da uvvers." Brudz said as she adjusted her welding mask. "If we do what dey're doin', maybe Cezzy an' Ongrat'll fink I aint 'ere."

The pair walked out casually into the work shop. Brudz tried her best to navigate with the welding mask on but the extreme tint of the eye glass made it difficult to see and she walked straight into a tool box, tripping over and making a racket as the drawers jolted open and tools splayed across the floor noisily.

"Yeah, dat's real conspicuous!" Glim whispered harshly as he bent over to help Brudz clean up the mess.

"I c'n barely see frew dis fing," Brudz complained, sitting up only to bang her head on a bench overhang painfully. She clenched her teeth to prevent herself from yelling out aloud, "Fraggin' jim shiks! Dat 'urt!"

Glim shook his head; he stuffed the rest of the tools back into the tool box and grabbed Brudz, pulling her up straight. "We'll jus' stay 'ere, not point tryin' ter move, yew'll end up breakin' ev'rythin' in 'ere."

Not wanting to risk taking off the face shield in case she was seen, Brudz asked, "C'n yer see a Dok an' a Snakebite Ork anywheres?"

Glim looked about; he spotted the Dok and the Snakebite standing next to Shilf, chatting to some of the Bruna Boyz who had stayed behind. Shilf was looking in Glim's direction; he muttered something to two of the Burna Boyz and they walked towards the pair. "Yeah, I sees 'em wiv da Boss. An' some ov da boyz are talkin' to 'em. Don't say a word though, Shilf's sent Firf an' Zigz over."

No sooner had Glim explained the situation when Firf and Zigz hailed them. "Oi, yew two, eiver ov yew seen Brudz? Boss wants 'er."

Brudz merely shook her head; Glim replied to his fellow Burna Boyz, "Seen 'er? Well… last I saw 'er she woz fixin' 'er bike."

Firf and Zigz leaned on a work bench, narrowing their eyes at Glim. Zigz, the taller of the two, asked, "Yew woz put in charge ov watchin' 'er, so where iz she? Or shall we tell Shilf yer bludgin'? 'Ee won't like dat now, will 'ee Firf?"

"Nah, ol' Shilf sure won't like one bit." Firf replied, shaking his head disapprovingly.

Glim looked sideways at Brudz nervously. Shilf, like every other large Ork, had a tendency to become extremely violent when he got angry. Always one to put his own health before others, Glim gave in. "Alright, alright. She's 'ere, in da overalls."

"Glim! 'Ow could ya?" Brudz crouched down behind the bench and removed her welding mask. She looked up at Firf and Zigz pleading, "Pleez, yew two, don't dob me in – I dun wanna go back wiv dem mean Snakebites! Dey dun know da first fing about bikes! I wanna stay 'ere!"

'Please' was a word rarely – and sparingly – used by Orks. It was reserved for severe ass kissing moments. Firf and Zigz looked back at Ongrat and then at Brudz again.

Firf spoke sternly but with some sympathy. "Shilf'll decide whevver yew c'n stay, not da Snakebites."

Relief flooded through Brudz; she stood up and allowed the Burna Boyz to escort her to Shilf. When they arrived, Brudz greeted Ongrat. "'Ello pig face, I see yer got da sense ter finally dress yerself properly. Now me eyes don't sting ev'ry time I see yer, hur, hur, hur."

"Like yew c'n talk, look at yew!" Ongrat replied looking at Brudz in disgust, "Yew look like a clown in dose overalls an' boots."

Brudz pulled out a spanner from beneath the overalls and raised it threateningly, but Shilf grabbed her forearm with his large muscular hand. "'Old it Brudz, we don't want no fireworks from dat Weirdboy. Now, I've been talkin' wiv dese two an' dey says dey wants yer to go back wiv 'em."

"But I do-"

"Shut up, I aint finished talkin'. What I woz gonna say iz dat yew can stay or go. I don't really care what yew choose – if yer wanna stay, den I won't let 'em take yer. If yew wanna go, den I won't 'old yer back."

Shilf let go of Brudz' arm and she put the spanner away. She was silent with excitement – Brudz had permission to stay at the workshop. "F-fer evuh?" She stuttered. "Stay 'ere az long az I live, type ov stay?"

Nodding, Shilf replied, "Yeh, dat type ov stay."

"What?" Cezzy-Po caught on to what had just happened. "Yew want ter LIVE 'ere, Brudz? What's da matter wiv yew, 'ave you got rocks in ya 'ead? We're bound fer Gotshik's settlement! Dere'll be plenty ov uver Meks dere – Evil Sunz Meks!"

Brudz avoided looking her spore sister in the eyes. "Well… what's da point, if yer gonna be wiv da Snakebites? I aint goin' to Gotshik's camp jus' ta be wiv Meks when I c'n do dat right 'ere an' now. Even if da Snakebites end up stayin' at Gotshik's camp… graaah! I jus' don't wanna go! I 'ate it! Yew is leavin' me b'hind ter join da hill billies, jus' so yer c'n wait on Ongrat like a snivlin' grot!"

"Iz dat what dis iz all about?" Ongrat said rolling his eyes. "Yew fink da Dok's joinin' our Clan?"

"Yeah, why'd I wanna join dat git's Clan when dere's more casualties fer me wiv da Evil Sunz?" Cezzy said cheerfully. "I don't wanna work on squigs an' boars me whole life, I wanna dig around in Ork brainz an' intestines."

The Evil Sunz Mek turned away from Cezzy-Po and Ongrat and pulled the face shield down over her face. She made odd snorts and grunts as she asked, "I seen what yew woz like wiv Ongrat around. I dun wanna be iz friend – ee's a mean pig. Yew pay more attenshun to 'im den ter me, yer own spore sistah nowadays…"

Glim sniffed the side of Brudz' face shield. "I smell jealousy, hur, hur." He said grinning.

"I aint cryin'! Oh, er whad didja say? I mean, I AINT JEALOUS!"

Ongrat looked rather pleased with himself until Cezzy-Po grabbed him by the throat, and pulled him down level with her face as she yelled at him. "Why do yew look so smug, eh? Did yew set all dis up, ter make me sistah not wanna travel wiv us? I know yew don't like 'er!"

"C-can't b-breathe!" Ongrat said, struggling for breath with his throat under the Dok's surprisingly vice-like grip.

She let go, and Ongrat rubbed his throat and Waagh energy sparking from his ears. "I didn't do nuffin'," he growled angrily, "It's not like I asked yer to 'ang around! An' god only knows why she finks yer wanna join us Snakebites. I mean, we do need a Dok or a Pigdok but still…"

Cezzy-Po punched Ongrat in the nose and laid a swift boot to Brudz' bottom; both the Orks cried out in pain, but the Dok wasn't listening. She shrieked out orders which made Shilf and the Burna Boyz plug their ears.

"YEW TWO BETTA SORT DIS OUT RIGHT NOW! I'VE 'AD ENOUGH!" Lowering her voice slightly, she addressed Brudz who was lying on the ground. "Yew, now dat yer know I aint joinin' da Snakebites, are ya gonna come back ta camp now?"

"No… not unless Ongrat apologizes fer bein' a turd!"

Cezzy-Po's fiery glare turned to Ongrat expectantly. Ongrat touched his nose delicately, farting a green waft of Waagh energy. "I aint apologizen' ter no one!" He scoffed.

Cezzy-Po sighed. No body was taking the blame for anything as usual. It was time to do things _her_ way. "I've got an idea dat I fink yew'll bofe agree to…"


	20. Scar Poka Showdown!

Chapta Nineteen: Scar Poka Showdown

**Chapta Nineteen: Scar Poka Showdown!**

Say of Da Day: _"So ladz, yer feelin' lucky today?" – Kargust, Waaghboss of the southern Goffs tribe_

The Dok had devised a cunning plan to make her spore sister return to the camp and leave Shilf's workshop… if Ongrat didn't ruin it. She knew Brudz hated Ongrat… but loved playing Scar Poka. Combining the two facts, she put forth her idea to the young Mek: play a tournament consisting of thirteen rounds of Quick Draw Scar Poka against Ongrat and have to the chance to humiliate, hurt, and generally deface the Weirdboy. If Ongrat won, Brudz had to return to the camp and never go back to Shilf's workshop after finishing her bike. If Brudz won, Ongrat had to apologize and Brudz could choose if she stayed with Shilf and the others, or go back to the camp.

Brudz wasn't going to pass down the opportunity to do evil cruel things to Ongrat, even if she knew the stakes were high (in her opinion). Ongrat didn't want to compete in the challenge, but Cezzy-Po quickly changed his mind for him when she threatened to use his brain as an organ donation for Squigsy (she had decided to change his name from Squiggy to Squigsy, because she claimed the new name was more "fitting").

Before agreeing to the challenge, Brudz asked for one more condition to be entered.

"I'll accept the challenge if yew add sumfin' to me win condition: Ongrat 'as ter kiss my bare butt, on both cheeks."

"Well…" Cezzy-Po looked at Ongrat; the Weirdboy looked about ready to kill someone. "Alright, but yew 'ave ter do da same ta Ongrat if 'ee wins."

Brudz and Ongrat glared at each other. "Agreed!" They said together.

Everyone including Shilf listened carefully as Cezzy-Po explained the rules. "Firstly, I will pick four Orks ta be on da 'Poka Committee' – da committee will 'ave da job ov keeping score, an' choosin' da loser's punishment if da two contestants can't agree on sumfin'.

"Secondly, da punishment musht be agreed on b'fore da round starts. If da looser refuzez to take da punishment, dey _automatically_ loose da tournament – no matter 'ow many roundz they've won. Dis also means all firteen rounds must be played. An' da next round must be played wiv in an hour ov da looser getting their punishment; dat's to say, dey 'ave one hour ter recover if dey needs it.

"Firdly, dere's no such fing az cheatin'. Da only fing dat's not allowed iz da cards bein' dealt unfairly. But since I'm gonna be da dealer, we won't 'ave dat problem.

"Fourtherly, if a match is tied, we'll toss beer cap. Dere must be one winner, an' one fat looser fer each round. An' what else woz dere… oh yes, da committee will also deal wiv all disputes which may arise."

Even Ongrat was smiling by the end of it all; contrary to his original reluctance, he was now very eager to participate. "So whens we gettin' started?" He asked the Dok.

"Not right now," Cezzy-Po replied. "We needs ta let Uurgrin know what's 'appenin' so 'ee don't fink we've gone missin'. An' I want 'im ta be on da committee. Da Quick Draw Scar Poka showdown'll start tomorrow mornin'. Shilf, can we 'old it 'ere in yaw workshop?"

All the Burna Boyz bugged Shilf to agree; they wanted to witness the match. Shilf didn't need much persuading though, and approved the arrangement. "Alright, yew c'n hold yer match 'ere. But I want ter be on dis… committee."

The deal was settled. "Sure, I woz gonna ask yer anyway." Cezzy-Po replied. "Me, Ongrat an' da uvers'll be 'ere bright an' early – so yew lot be ready. Yew 'ear me, Brudz? No sleepin' in! We'll need all day fer dis contest…"

Before the sun had risen the next morning, Cezzy-Po and Ongrat were leading Uurgrin, Jamz, Oric and a select group of Snakebites to Shilf's workshop; Uurgrin even allowed Orlen to take the day off from fixing the Wartrakk to witness the competition. The small crowd was in high spirits; all except for Ongrat who was in a foul mood after finding out that Jamz and Oric had eaten his expensive boar.

"Hur, hur, hur, I 'ope yew've all got some teef left ter bet wiv, 'coz I aint lendin' no one any." Uurgrin said as he patted a leather pouch which was hidden beneath his furs. "An' rememba, don't go stirrin' up Ongrat too much – ee might blow da cards away, har, har, har!"

"Shud up, Boss… I ain't gonna blow nuffin' away." Ongrat sneered; he wasn't in the mood for putting up with the torment today.

Meanwhile at Shilf's, the Meks and Burna Boys were beginning to stir from their slumber. The Gretchin cooked everyone's breakfast in the furnace; the smell of squig 'n' mushroom pie made many a mouth water.

The day before, everything in the workshop had been pushed to the walls, except for one bench which was to be the Poka table, and some crates for the 'poka committee' to sit on. Brudz, who had taken to sleeping in the now not-so-crumpled side cart of her bike got up and stretched, yawning wide. Something flew into her mouth, causing her to choke.

"Hkk! Hkk! Bleh! Fleh! Good damn you Glim! Ssffpt!" She coughed and spat out the small flat washer into her hand, and threw it at the culprit who was warming himself by the furnace where the pies were baking.

The washer bounced off Glim harmlessly into the furnace. "I mistook yer big mouf fer a bin," he said with a snicker. "Hur, hur, hur."

Brudz joined Glim at the furnace to warm her stiff bones up. "Do sumfin' like dat again an' I'll mistake yer butt fer somewhere to rest be boot!"

They bought pies from the Gretchin and ate; slowly more and more Orks emerged from their quarters to eat. By the time the sun breached the horizon, the workshop was a beehive of activity and chatter.

Gretchin book keepers were racing around taking bets for the upcoming Poka showdown. One of the Gretchin approached Glim and Brudz. "Yew wanna make a bet? Stakes are f'ree ta one on da Weirdboy an' four ta one on da girl."

"Why's _my_ stake higher? Does yew fink I'll _loose?_" Brudz pulled the book out of the Gretchin's hands to take a look. "Hmph. I'll win, yew'll see."

The Gretchin snatched his book back. "Ev'ry one reckons da Weirdboy's got it over yew – not my fault! Now are eiver of yew gonna bet? I ain't got all day."

Not willing to risk injury, Glim declined. Brudz on the other hand, bet her last twenty teeth on herself. "Heh. If I win, I'll also be much more richa."

"…an' if yer loose, yew'll be broke, and puckerin' up to dat Weirdboy's arse."

"Glim, do me a favor, an' shut up."

Shilf greeted Uurgrin and his Snakebites, letting the horde into his workshop. The Gretchin sold pies and fungus beer to the new comers, cashing in on the activity while they could. The last bets were laid down, and Cezzy-Po gathered the committee together to brief them before the Poka began. Besides Uurgrin and Shilf, the Dok had chosen Oric and Frakzet, the hearing-impaired Snakebite Nob, to make up the other half.

Brudz and Ongrat took their places either side of the lone workbench, pulling up a stool each. Sparks were already flying around Ongrat's head as he and Brudz glared at each other like two tom cats ready to fight. Their claws gripped the bench, grating against the metal as they waited for Cezzy-Po; it felt like decades before she approached them.

"Now, 'ave yew two fawt of somethin' nasty for da loser ov da first round, mmm?" The Dok asked, shuffling a fresh deck of cards in her hands.

"I say da loser gets tied up while da winner layz inta 'em wiv a steel pipe!" Ongrat suggested, imagining Brudz being beaten into a bloody pulp.

"Well _I_ reckon da looser should get dis fing stuck up dere log 'ole!" Brudz pulled out a small, dented, metal cigar container from her pocket and opened it, tipping its contents onto the metal table. It was a piece tiger claw cactus that she had removed from her hide while on their journey to Squigopolis. "I kept a piece."

Ongrat picked the cactus piece up gingerly and inspected it. "Hur, hur, hur… yeah, alright, you're on."

Cezzy-Po began dealing out the cards. "Alrighty den! Let's begin."

Ongrat and Brudz picked up their cards and evaluated their positions; they didn't make much effort to hide their expressions.

"Deal me four new cards," Brudz snarled, slapping her four discarded cards onto the bench top face down. Her agitation didn't lessen when Cezzy handed her the new cards.

The Weirdboy requested two new cards, smirking across the table at Brudz… until he saw his new cards.

"Alright, let's end da first round" The Dok announced, "an' get to da fun part, heh heh heh…"

With the utmost reluctance the pair laid their hands down for everyone to see. Brudz and Ongrat looked relieved and puzzled, amazed at what they saw. Both hands were identical except for card suits; their hands comprised of a Jack, Ten, Seven, Five and a Three.

"Well, I didn't expect dat ter 'appen on da firsht round," Cezzy said sounding disappointed. "Guess da pain'll 'ave ter wait while we flip a beer lid – it's a tie!"

She dug into her dirty lab coat and pulled out a beer cap. She scratched an 'X' and 'O' on the top and bottom of the cap respectively. "Cross or circle?" She asked Ongrat, with her fingers poised to flip the cap into the air.

"Why don't I get ter pick?" Brudz complained. "Dat's unfair!"

"It aint unfair, it's a good way ter end a tie breaker." Cezzy-Po explained impatiently. "Now shud up Brudz; an' yew 'urry up Ongrat, or winter'll be 'ere b'fore da next round."

"Er, cross." Ongrat mumbled.

"Dat means yew've got circle, Brudz." Cezzy-Po flicked the cap; all eyes were trained on it as it spun in the air, first going up, pausing for a split second at the peak of it's travel, then plummeted down to the ground.

The cap bounced off the cement floor, cart wheeled, and finally came to rest in front of some of the on lookers. Cezzy-Po rushed over before anyone could tamper with the results to benefit their bets.

"Hur, hur… circle! Brudz winz round one."

Elated at taking the victory, Brudz ran around the bench jumping, waving her arms, and frothing at the mouth as she howled and whooped. "Even if I loose da tournament, jus' winnin' dis round makes it all werf it. Yoo-hoo!"

Ongrat was too horrified to reply; the reality of what was going to happen left him numb.

Cezzy walked over to him, pulling a pair of tongs out of her coat and held them out for Brudz. The Mek skipped over and took the tongs, opening the battered cigar container. She plucked the tiger claw cactus clump out, and held it up. "Turn 'round, bend over, an' drop yer daks… don't worry, I'll be gentle. Ah ha-ha-ha!"

Half an hour later, Ongrat was requesting three new cards; the second round had begun. A stack of old tires had replaced the Weirdboy's stool to accommodate his tender behind. Brudz had been anything but gentle with the cactus and the tongs… he ranked the ordeal as the number one most horrific thing that had ever happened to him in his life. Ongrat thanked the gods that he was a Weirdboy though, as he managed to incinerate the lodged foreign object with a mighty blast of waagh energy. His skin was left raw, but only a few of the spike tips remained embedded; it wouldn't take more than a couple of hours for the Ork to heal so he pressed on, bent on vengeance.

"Yew a gulper, or a slurper?" Ongrat snickered. He was confident that his hand would win.

"Me? I like ter chug it down. How 'bout yew though? Can yew chug dis down?" Brudz revealed her hand; she had three Kings and a pair of twos.

The grin on Ongrat's face didn't fade. He slowly lowered his cards, teasing Brudz. Her smug appearance vaporized while she tried to see what his hand was. She nearly fell off her stool when Ongrat suddenly threw down his cards in rage an he yelled "Alright! ALRIGHT! Yew win. AGAIN! I hate yew!"

Brudz got up, her heart still thudding in her chest like a jack hammer. She thought she'd be toasting to Ongrat's urine; thanking her lucky stars, she grinned knowing that instead he would be toasting to a bottle of her urine instead. She was enjoying the Poka tournament very much.

An Ork in the crowd threw Brudz an empty fungus beer bottle; she caught it, and walked towards an empty room leaving Ongrat to sulk and curse to himself angrily.

Once she returned, Brudz handed Ongrat the fungus beer bottle which had been filled to the brim with, well, something he would rather not put down his gullet. The Mek hadn't been too accurate, and the bottle was dripping wet. She also topped it off with a straw and an umbrella that the made from some wire and cloth. "'ere's yer refreshments, oh great one."

Ongrat's eyes watered at the rancid smell; he flicked the umbrella away, and took out the straw. He decided if he was going to drink it, he'd do it like a real Ork. He grabbed the bottle – quivering slightly as his palms became wet with the spilled liquid – and forced himself to put the opening to his mouth, and skull the contents.

By the time the urine reached Ongrat's stomach, it quickly did a U-turn and came rushing back out in a spray of vomit which rained down over the bench, narrowly missing Brudz.

He looked at the bottle; two thirds to go – he ignored the roars of laughter, and bit back the urge destroy something with his waagh energy. He wasn't going to loose the tournament, not to that annoyance…

Fate dealt Brudz her first blow in the third round, as she lost sorely with a pair of Threes; Ongrat won with a straight flush. As had been arranged, Ongrat was allowed to go blitz on Brudz with a Grot-prod (a device akin to a cattle prod, intended for use on Gretchin). He savored every second of the experience, reserving no mercy for his foe – Orks have very little mercy at the best of times.

Every time she screamed his smile got wider; every time she begged for mercy, he called her a pansy. Prod by shocking prod, Ongrat felt his pride returning and the torture came to an end sooner than he would have liked. Time flies when you're having fun.

Cezzy-Po took the Grot-prod off Ongrat, and he returned to his pile of tires, sitting and waiting for Brudz to join him in the fourth round. She lay on the ground, still twitching from her various muscle spasms. It was a good forty minutes before the next round began. And when it did, the Mek cursed her ill luck.

Twice in a row she lost, and Ongrat took the lead, his ego growing with each win until Brudz felt like she was going to suffocate from it. Her punishment for losing round four wasn't as painful as the Grot-prod, but it did cause her to drool a lot – she had her tongue stapled to the roof of her mouth, and wasn't allowed to remove it until the end of the fifth round.

Once the staple was removed, it was time for the Mek to receive her punishment for losing the fifth round. Ongrat had the pleasure of pouring chili sauce into her eyes and squirting up her nose. The Mek ran around blindly trying to find some source of water to wash her face with; eventually she found a toilet and flushed her head several times – unlike the last she'd had her head flushed, she was relieved. She refused to play Poka until her entire hour was over because her vision had been impaired; when the hour was up, she could just make out the cards.

The sixth round served up Ongrat his next loss, helping to keep his ego in check. It was the first round where the audience was allowed to participate – Ongrat had to endure fifty nipple cripples. The Orks also discovered something strange about the Dok during Ongrat's punishment.

"Alright, ev'ry body line up – only one nipple cripple each. Brudz gets ter deal out da rest." Cezzy-Po spoke, ushering the crowd of Orks to one side of the bench. "Take off dat amour Ongrat, dey can't pinch yew frew dat."

Ongrat eyed some of the Nobz' muscular hands; they looked as if they _could_ pinch him through his leather vest. He did as he was bid by the Dok, and undid the buckles and slipped the vest off, sitting it on the bench. Over the ensuing fifteen minutes, Ongrat experienced pain like never before. By the time he had his nipples pinched fifty times, he had to race outside to release all the pent up waagh energy; green light flashed through the windows, and Ongrat walked back in glumly, nursing his wounds.

"What're yew gawpin' at?" He sneered at the Dok who was staring at his bare chest with a quirky smile on her face.

The Dok ignored Ongrat's foul temper and walked up to him, poking about his chest with her medical instruments. "Lemme fix dose bleedin' fings of yaws, hee, hee…"

"Git away! I don't need yer ta stitch me up. I'll get betta on me own! Oi, what're yew doin'?" Ongrat was surprised when Brudz tried to put his vest over his head from behind.

"Jus' put it on Ongrat, I wants ter see sumfin'." Brudz replied, forcing the thing over his head. It went on, but his arms were trapped against his sides.

"Fix Ongrat's boo-boos," Brudz ordered her sister.

Cezzy-Po snorted, "Not likely, I aint a charity. If 'ee gives me some teef I might."

Brudz then removed the vest, and repeated her order. "Fix 'iz nipples, Dok."

"Shaw fing! Jus' let me fred me sewin' needle…"

Ongrat snatched the vest from Brudz and put it back on. Once it was buckled up tightly, he said to the Dok, "Shoo, I don't need me chest sewn up."

His bare feet were stamped on by the Dok who snarled, "watch yer mouf, yew aint my boss, so don't give me orders!"

"Oh, I like dis…" Brudz grinned evilly. "Heh, heh, heh… "

After further investigation during their lunch break, Brudz and Ongrat concluded that the Dok had an obsession with bare chests – the Dok had said, "Dey reminds me ov all da dead bodies I hacked open fer spare parts… hee hee hee! I'd cut da clothes off dere chest, slice open dere ribs, an' take whatever woz in good nick. An' open chest surgery's one ov me favorites. I gets ter see lots of fings! Dat's da way a Dok should always live…"

After the discovery, Brudz and Ongrat went back to hating each other in the usual manner, and the tournament resumed.

Brudz lost the seventh round, and had her top row of teeth ripped out with pliers. Ongrat lost rounds eight and nine, and was made to endure having a rivet gun applied to his butt and his right hand nailed to the bench until the end of round ten – which, to his relief he won. The punishment for round ten wasn't painful, but it was certainly entertaining to the onlookers. The young Mek inwardly cringed as she was forced to give Ongrat an extensive back massage – if she did something wrong, or hurt the Weirdboy, she would get a shock from the Grot-prod.

"Yeah, right dere… dat's gud. Now a little lowa. To da right. Da uvver right! Yeah, aahhh. Good job, slave. Ouch! Dat 'urt! Poke 'er wiv da Grot-prod!"

"Eeek! Ouch! Gawd… 'ee woz lyin'! I didn't 'urt 'im! Bastard…"

There were only three rounds left, and the scores were even. The Ork to win two of the three final rounds would be on the path to victory.

"…Fwree aces, beat dat, Ongrat."

"Dis sucks…" Ongrat muttered, showing his cards – a pair of Kings, a Ten, Two and Five. "Alright, let's get it ovuh wiv. Uugh… I'm glad ninety percent ov da clan's DEAD an' can't see dis…"

Ongrat and Brudz had agreed that the looser have the phrase, "I am (winner's name) slave fer ev'r!" tattooed onto their left butt cheek.

"Why does I _always_ get da butt punishments…" Ongrat sighed. He was too tired to truly care anymore. He pulled down the back of his pants, and allowed Cezzy-Po to use her brutal looking tattoo device. "Gentle! GENTLE! That's da side dat got riveted earlier!"

At the start of round twelve, Cezzy-Po was glaring at Ongrat angrily; he guessed she was mightily pissed off that he wasn't in the lead at such a vital time in the tournament. Her glare quickly turned venomous when Brudz won yet another round.

"Whoo-hoo! Looksh like I'm shtayin' 'ere wiv Shilf an' me buddy Glim." Brudz said slightly slurred, thanks to her missing a row of teeth. She leaned over the bench, licked one of her cards, and stuck it to Ongrat's forehead. "Oh, dish'll be a great day – da day yew kissh my butt, apologishes, an' amidsht defeat."

The Weirdboy removed the card from his forehead, snarling furiously at Brudz. "Don't go celebratin' yet yer toofless shit 'ead, dis tournament aint over 'til we plays da last round!"

"Sho be it, but let'sh finish da twelf firsht, hur, hur, hur!" Brudz grinned, but her upper lip curled over her toothless gum, making her look like she was trying to eat her own face.

The final round was about to begin; Ongrat sat on his stack of tires, with a lump the size of Jupiter protruding from the top of his head – all thanks to a large mallet that Brudz had swung with all the strength she could muster. He ignored the lump, and focused on choosing the perfect punishment for the last round.

"What's yer obsession wiv 'urting me be'ind? Fink ov sumfin' else, coz I aint agreein' ta anyfin' dat'll 'urt me butt if I looses!"

"Aww, but I fink a fire cracker wosh a good idea. Oh, 'ow boutsh fire worksh instead! Dat'd be funny."

"NO!"

The Mek didn't like being told no; she got cranky when Ongrat refused. "Party pooper, fink of shomefin' else, den! Fink yer sho shmart…"

Ongrat remembered how scared Brudz had been of Jawge the giant snake; he suggested that the looser had to allow themselves to get bitten by Jawge, but Brudz utterly refused. They continued to argue about the punishment, and eventually Cezzy-Po told them to shut up, and that the Poka Committee would choose the punishment.

Brudz wondered what the four Committee Orks were talking about; they had their backs to her, and were comparing each others feet. They nodded, agreeing about something. When they turned around, putting their boots back on, Uurgrin announced the punishment. "'oo ever looses… 'az ter suck Shilf's toes sparkly clean, hur, hur."

Ongrat and Brudz' faces twisted in disgust. They had some relief, however: at least it wouldn't be painful… hopefully.

Cezzy-Po wasted no time dealing the cards out. After discarding and collecting their new cards as desired, the time came to reveal hands – but first, there was trash talk to be exchanged.

"'Ave fun suckin' dem toes, hur, hur! Should be an easy fing fer yew to do, 'aving only 'alf yer teef an' all."

"I'm sure 'iz toesh'll taste better den my cocktail, dontcha fink, mmm?"

"It woz werf drinkin' dat toxic sludge jus' ter be able ter use dat Grot-prod!"

"Dat wavn't shludge! Yew'll learn what real shludge looks like when yew tickle Shilf's toesh wif yer tongue!"

They argued for a few more minutes before finally laying down their hands. "Full 'oushe – fwree Kingsh, an' a pair ov Tensh." Brudz announced trying to see what Ongrat's hand was.

Instead of putting his hand onto the bench the Weirdboy stood up and walked over to Brudz, and put an arm around her neck. He then showed her his hand. "…four Aces an' a Two. I 'ope yer like sludge flavored lollipops."

Shilf had apparently never removed his boots once over the past three months, until today when the Committee was trying to find out who had the filthiest feet. Looking at the Big Mek's bootless feet made Brudz' stomach shudder with fear. She had eaten many horrible things in the past, but what she was looking at could only be compared with two-week-old road kill let to rot. Shilf's feet even _smelt_ like road kill.

"'Urry up," Shilf said wiggling his clawed toes. "Me feet're gettin' cold."

Brudz knelt down, trying to force her face to get closer. "I can't believe me freedom rests in… Shilf's feet." She closed her eyes and opened her mouth; but the stench was so bad that she could taste it, and she regurgitated her lunch onto the floor beside Shilf.

"Wot's wrong? Don't like toe jam?" Ongrat laughed, thanking his lucky stars he didn't loose. "It's alright, yer got one hour ter banquet on dose yummy lookin' toes."

"Shut yer mouf, ass hole. Yew'll be kishin' my arse when dis iz ovuh…"

Fifty minutes passed, and Brudz still hadn't even licked one of Shilf's pinkies. Every time she tried to put her mouth over his toes, it was like an invisible force prevented her from getting within an inch of them. She just couldn't do it – she'd rather eat a plate of squig droppings than put Shilf's toes in her mouth.

Orks who had bet their teeth on Brudz were all trying to convince her that she shouldn't give up; but despite their efforts, she crumpled under the pressure.

"I… I can't do it." Brudz tugged at her ears in frustration. She knew that by refusing to complete the punishment, Ongrat would automatically win the tournament.

Those who had bet on Brudz weren't impressed, and many swore very loudly.

"I knew I should 'ave bet on dat Weirdboy… now I'm twenty teef short!"

"Why couldn't yew 'ave jus' sucked iz damn TOES! I coulda bin FILFY RICH! But now I'm FILFY POVO!"

"I made a mistake bettin' on yew, yer runt. Runts always loose!"

Ongrat released fountains of waagh energy from his mouth in joy, melting some nearby scaffolding and setting fire to a few Orks nearby. "I won! I WON!"

Jamz pushed his way through the crowd until he stood over Brudz, Looking down at her cowering form. "Next time yer try uh runn'r like dat, when I finds yer, I'll cut yer gut open an' stuff an 'ungry squig in yer belly!"

He was about to grab her when Cezzy-Po stepped between him and Brudz. "Now 'old on dere big bro, dat one's still got one lasht fing ta do. Go 'ave some beer or somefin'."

The Mega Armored Nob yelled out to a Gretchin sitting on a pile of junk, "Get me some Beer! NOW!" Then walked off, flinging aside anyone who got in his way.

The Dok grabbed Brudz by an ear and pulled her up. "C'mon, yew lost; Ongrat's waitin'."

Brudz looked over to where Ongrat was standing, doing some weird jig. When he saw her, he pulled a face and stuck up both his rude fingers. "L-l-looo-zeeeerr!" He called out tauntingly. "Come ov'r 'ere an' kiss my butt better."

"Ef wit…" Brudz mumbled, and trudged over.

"Jus' rememba, I'm a Weirdboy. I c'n make yer 'ead explode if yer try anyfin' nasty." Ongrat warned her, then turned around and once again lowered the back of his pants.

"Eugh, grosh… Oi, I don't wanna audiensh! Yew lot, shoo!" Brudz scolded the circle of Orks which had crowded around, but no one budged. They all looked at her as if to say, 'try an make us'.

She crouched down so her face was level with Ongrat's bottom. She prayed silently to Gork and Mork that the Weirdboy wouldn't fart. "'Ere goes…" She puckered her lips and leant forward with her eyes tightly closed, until she met his left cheek.

All the onlookers erupted into hysterics, making absurd comments and generally being uncouth. Brudz ignored them as much as possible, and kissed Ongrat's right cheek. When she finished, ran over to the crowd and snatched a beer from one of the Orks. She took a swig, swished it about her mouth, spat it out, then handed the beer back. When she turned around she saw Ongrat standing inches away from her.

"Yeah, I know, I know. I gots ter go back to da camp…" Brudz grumbled.

_Crack! Ooof!_

Brudz was sent flying into the crowd of Orks with swift punch to the side of her head, and a powerful kick to her stomach. The Orks made a wide berth around Brudz as Ongrat walked up to her; he had a look of thunder on his face.

Brudz stood up, rubbing her cheek bone. "Dat woshn't part of da deal! Idiot."

"Now dat da tournament's over, I c'n do what I likes!" Ongrat snarled, grabbing Brudz by the collar of her singlet. "An' I'm gonna start by makin' yew wish yew'd never been spored!"

"Suck my –"

"Shtop dis right _NOOOOOOW_!" Cezzy-Po's screech sounded like nails being scraped down a chalk board. "Don't make me git out me scalpels…"

Ongrat let go of Brudz, whispering to her, "Jus' you wait 'til dat Dok ain't 'round ter save yaw skin…"

Half an hour later the Snakebites and the Evil Sunz were outside of Shilf's workshop winding up their conversations with the Burna Boys and Meks. Brudz sat on her bike, which was operational once again, talking to Shilf and Glim. The young Mek was miserable, and couldn't look Shilf in his cybork eyes.

"So, er… where ya off to?" Glim asked, trying to prevent an awkard silence.

Brudz shrugged limply. "Gotta find Gotshik's warband… shomewhere far away. Ee's fightin' da Goffs or somefin'."

The three Orks looked around when they heard panicked screams from some of the Orks.

"A giant snake's invaded da shity!"

"Da snake's gonna eat us! Run!"

Jawge was slithering towards the workshop with the remainder of Uurgrin's Snakebites sitting on his back; they were left at the camp to guard the camp.

"Calm down, it's just Jawge!" Cezzy-Po called out to the alarmed Orks.

The snake slithered over to Uurgrin, and the Snakebites jumped off. They smelt strongly of alcohol.

"Boss, da wartrakk… it, uh… got stolen." One of the Orks informed Uurgrin. "An'… dat squig fing's gone missin', too."

"Dere woz too many ov 'em!" Another Snakebite whimpered.

The Snakebite Boss clenched his fists angrily. "It got stolen? 'Ow?"

"SQUIGSY'S GONE MISSIN'!?" Cezzy-Po dashed over and held her chest saw across one of the Ork's throats, oblivious of Uurgrin. "WHERE'D MY SQUIGSY GO!"

"D-don't know…" The fearful Snakebite stammered truthfully. "We didn't really notice 'till we saw da Wartrakk rev ter life an' barge frew da fence…"

The Dok lowered her chest saw. "I knew I shoulda brought Squigsy wiv me… C'mon Brudz, we're goin' back ter camp!"

Brudz started her bike, and it sputtered to life. She would do anything to put distance between herself and the giant snake. Cezzy-Po jumped in the side cart, and the bike sped off.

The Dok hadn't been the only one to be enraged. Oric was fuming that his precious Wartrakk had been stolen; he made Uurgrin look like a playful kitten.

"MmmmmmMMMYYYY WAAARTAAAAAKKK!" He hollered, taking his Squiggoth tusk from its sling. He began thrashing at everything in sight, including any Orks who hadn't vacated the area. "Somebody's gonna PAY!"

Oric's sudden rage triggered Jamz' battle rage. "WAAAAAAAGH!"

_Squelch! Squish! Crunch!_ "WAAAARTRAAAAK!"

The two Nobz ran off down the road back towards camp, weapons raised above their heads. Jamz was much slower, and Oric quickly gaining distance. The pair didn't stop running, and their shouts could still be heard when they disappeared around a corner.

"We're goin' back ter camp!" Uurgrin ordered his Orks. "Let's go! When I get me 'ands on dose fieves, dey'll wish dey never stole anyfin' from da Snakebites…"

"… don't da Wartrakk an' da squig belong ter da Evil Sunz…?" One of the Snakebite Nobz pointed out.

Uurgrin mounted Jawge with Orlen and Ongrat. "…Shud up."

* * *

**Chapta 19 Notes: **I wanted to do something ultra silly… so don't worry, the rest of the story isn't going to be as insane is this chapta was. Back to semi-sanity next chapta, I promise! ;)


	21. Here Dey Come Again

Chapta Twenty: Here Dey Come

**Chapta Twenty: Here Dey Come… Again**

_Say of Da Day – "Hiding's not just for cowards, it's for people with a will to live." – PVT Marco Fezz._

Dust clouds and plumes of dirty exhaust gas trailed the mob of Ork warbuggies, warbikes, and battlewagons which spear headed their way mercilessly across the parched desert. Kargust's scouts had reported seeing tracks leading from the ruined Snakebite camp to the east; Squigopolis was the most obvious destination of the surviving Snakebites.

Not a single Goff Ork was left to walk; Kargust didn't want to waste one second more than he had needed to achieve his goal, and ordered anything with wheels to be loaded to the brim. Even some of the warbikes faired an extra passenger; Ilgil and Mokka were two such extra passengers, riding on warbikes at the back of the horde to try and avoid any mishaps as Weirdboys were prone to.

Ilgil did not find the ride as uncomfortable as Mokka, despite the Weirdboy Nob having a side cart to travel in – Ilgil was small enough to be perched behind the driver, clinging on like a limpet to a rock. Mokka despised the cramped side cart which wasn't suited for an Ork of his size and was quickly descending into a foul mood. They rode on different warbikes to avoid getting up each others noses – Mokka showed no signs of being even the slightest bit friendly to Ilgil, and in truth he had no intentions of it either.

Kargust was in a fetid mood as he stood on top of the leading battlewagon's canopy, holding onto the boss pole with one hand and sporting a pair of binoculars with the other. It was late afternoon, and the sun was beginning to make its way towards the horizon. The Goff Boss was bent on annihilating his enemy, Uurgrin, as soon as possible and would leave nothing to chance this time around. He made a verdict in his mind to hack each and every single Snakebite to pieces with his own hands if need be; the Boss would ensure the Clan did not suffer another humiliating set back.

"I can't see da city! Go fasta! I wanna get dere _now!_" Kargust yelled over the roar of the vehicles to the battlewagon's driver, despite the fact the overloaded battlewagon was going as fast as it could with a full load.

"Yeh, righto Boss!" The driver responded, if only to show that he had heard his Boss' order.

"I'll show dem Snakebites why I's called da Black Drag'n…" Kargust muttered, looking through his binoculars again, hoping to glimpse Squigopolis. "I c'n already feel dere blood splatterin' on me face…"

_Meanwhile, at the Snakebite's temporary camp._

Cezzy-Po and Brudz had arrived at the camp where the theft had taken place, and examined the spot where the Wartrakk had been parked prior to going missing.

"Looksh like dey jush' drove off wiv it," Brudz shrugged. "Maybe dey hot wired it."

The Dok wasn't concerned about the missing Wartrakk. "Oo cares 'bout dat ugly fing, iz dere any signs ov Squigsy? Poop or finga prints in da dirt maybe?"

Brudz shook her head. "No, not 'ere. But let'sh follow da Wartrakk'sh track, maybe dey took Shquigshy too."

Both Orks got back on the bike and drove through the hole in the fence where the Wartrakk had driven through. They followed the track across several blocks - it wasn't hard to see where the vehicle had been: a trail of destruction lay in its wake. Whoever was driving it obviously had a hard time getting used to the wide turn of the strange machine.

"Itsh good ter ride me bike again… look, no 'andsh!" Brudz let go of the handles and waved her hands in the air, her tongue lolling out the side of her mouth as she relished in the joy of riding at dangerous speeds.

Cezzy-Po shrieked as the bike wobbled treacherously, and punched her sister in the side of the face yelling, "grab dem 'andles b'fore I kills ya!"

Her sister complied, taking control of the bike again. "I woz jush' 'avin' shome fun…"

In no less than five minutes the trail came to a halt at a roll-up door of a large, graffiti covered, brick building. Brudz pulled up a few meters away confused. "Dat'sh weird, I fawt dey would've went furver dan dish. Do dey fink we're shtoopid or shumfin'? Oi? Where'd yer go?" Brudz looked at the empty side cart and around the area baffled.

"Fear da NINJA DOK!"

Brudz jumped out of her seat in fright and fell on the ground as something draped in a black sprang up beside her. "What da! I'm being attacked! Wha? Oi, Cezzy-Po… why are ya dressed up in dat?"

"What? I aint Cezzy-Po! I'm Ninja Dok!" The figure replied.

The 'Ninja Dok' wore black clothes; everything from the doctor's face mask to her coat, even the sash which was tied around her waist to keep the coat wrapped tight was dark (and appeared to be blood stained). The Ninja Dok's hands and feet were bare, and her hair was tied up in two buns – exactly like Cezzy-Po's.

"Gimme a break, do ya fink I'm dumb enough ter fall fer dat? I know dat'sh yew Shezzy-Po, I rememba sheein' ya dreshed in shimilar fingsh on our way ter Shquigopolish."

Ninja Dok completely denied having anything to do with Cezzy-Po. "I AM NINJA DOK! We must find Nin-Squig! Enough talk, especially since yew've got an' annoyin' lishp."

Brudz rolled her eyes; she had no idea what was making her sister act so strange, but for now if she wished to get anywhere she would have to play along and ask questions later. "Whateva… let'sh jusht break in an' get our shtuff back."

"I already fawt ov dat," Ninja Dok replied, pulling out a large tangle of stikkbombs from her behind her back. "We'll do it da easy way – open da door!"

With the swiftness of a leopard on speed, Ninja Dok placed the mess in front of the roll-up door, pulled a string which removed all twelve pins, and dashed behind the bike for cover.

_Crack! Crack! Bang! Crack-Crack-Crack-Bang! Bang! Crack! Bang-Bang! Crack!_

Brudz immediately jumped over to the other side of the bike to inspect for damage. "Yew idiot! I JUST GOT DISH FING PAINTED!" She ran her hand over the chipped paint fuming.

But Ninja Dok wasn't listening – she was busy whacking at the damaged door with one of Brudz' spanners.

"Well, yew shaw aint a Ninja oo'sh worried 'bout bein' dishcreet, are ya?" Sighing with resignation, Brudz picked up her largest spanner of all and joined in, trying to enlarge the hole that had been created. "Dis'd be so much quicka if Glim was 'ere wiv 'ish burna…"

"Dere's someone tryin' ter break in!" A voice yelled out behind the roll-up door.

"Ya fink?" Another voice replied. "I 'eard da noise from in da basement! Quick! Hide ev'ryfin'!"

Ninja Dok worked furiously, thrashing the hole larger and larger. As soon as it was big enough, she flew through the hole yelling, "NINNNNN-JA!"

Brudz crawled through, careful not to snag her clothes on the jagged edges of the metal. She held her spanner ready to fight, but Ninja Dok was doing a fine job of apprehending the Orks; the Mek recognized them as being members of the Deathskullz clan.

To her surprise, there were only two of them. With Ninja Dok tying up the two Orks, Brudz was free to look around at her leisure. The Mek didn't have to look hard to find the Wartrakk – it was in an adjacent room, surrounded by tools, petrol cans, and was partially painted blue; the two Orks had obviously been busy repainting and adjusting it. This infuriated the Mek; the only colour anybody painted her vehicles was _red_!

Stamping back into the garage she snarled at the two Orks, "Ain't yew pair got a brain b'tween yer? Don't paint my wartrakk blue, it'll go slower!"

The two Deathskullz Orks narrowed their eyes at Brudz and the Dok, as if trying to remember something.

"Oi, Oglak, iz it jus' me or does dem two look familiar?" One of the Deathskullz mused.

"Oh… yer right, Murk! 'Ey, I rememba! Dey's da pair we met at da pub in Tam'urt!"

Ninja Dok and Brudz looked at one another bewildered; suddenly, their memories came rushing back. "I… I don't know what yer talkin' 'bout!" Ninja Dok lied.

"Yeah, yeah, you're dat Dok!" Oglak said nodding. "An' she's da Mek! Rememba us? I'm Oglak, an' me buddy 'ere's Murkagro! But why's yer bofe dressed all funny?"

"I'm not jus' any Dok, I'm _Ninja_ Dok!," The Dok replied sounding offended. "An' I aint dressed funny! An' neiver iz she."

Brudz was sure she was still forgetting something important about the night at the pub; but she couldn't remember. "Uh… why d'ya say we're dressed funny? I always wears dis."

Oglak looked from the Dok to the Mek. "Deffskullz don't dress like dat. What're ya tryin' ta do, pass off az an Evil Sunz Ork and a Goff, hur, hur!"

The mention of dressing to look like another clan jolted the finer details of that night back into their memory. Brudz wasn't sure what to say except, "Uh, about dat… yew shee…"

A scuttling noise could be heard getting closer. Everybody looked about, when suddenly Squigsy came bounding out of the room where the wartrakk was parked. It squealed in delight when it saw Ninja Dok, and ran to her, jumping up at her legs like a dog.

Ninja Dok picked the experimental squig up, put a black bandana around its' head, and glared menacingly down at Oglak and Murkagro. "So! Yew _are_ responshible fer kid nappin' Nin-Squig! YEW SHALL DIE!"

"What!?" Murkagro shrunk beneath the wrath of Ninja Dok. "We didn't steal dat fing! We… we didn't even know it woz 'ere!"

Ninja Dok sat 'Nin-Squig' on her shoulder and reached for her chest saw which was slung across her back. Oglak blurted, "we woz jus' takin' it fer a walk, wasn't we, Murk? Yeah! Yeah! It looked like it needed some exercise… we woz gonna put it back, we swears!"

Murkagro nodded vigorously, apologizing. "W-we didn't mean ter make yer fink we woz fieves… oh, we aint fieves, oh no, certainly not! We woz jus' takin' it fer a walk like Oglak said. We're honest Orks, I swears, yep… "

Nin-Squig (better known to everyone except the Ninja Dok as Squigsy) licked Ninja Dok's cheek, salivating profusely. This seemed to calm the Ninja Dok down. "So… yer took me Nin-Squig for a walk, ya say?"

Oglak and Murkagro replied at the same time, "yep. Sure did…"

"_I suppose dat means yer took me wartrakk fer a walk too, yeah_?" The Orks looked around at the Roll-up door where the voice had come from.

A mega-claw ripped the door open like it was tissue paper; first Jamz entered, and then Oric. Uurgrin, Orlen, Ongrat and the other Snakebites could be seen standing outside with Jawge.

Oric was not impressed when he found the wartrakk – he dragged it out, and pointed to it as he scolded the Deathskullz, swearing, snorting and being generally outraged that it was stolen and given a horrible paint job. He was about to clobber the helpless pair with his Squiggoth tusk when Murkagro pleaded for the girls to help them. "Don't let 'im kill us Cezzy-Po! We won't be able ter go pub crawlin' togever wiv yew an' Brudz ev'r again if were squished! If yew untie us an' save us, I swears we'll do whatev'r yew lot want – we 'aven't even been ta waagh yet!"

"I told yer, I ain't Cezzy-Po! I'm _Ninja Dok_!"

Jamz walked up to the tied Deathskullz and bent over until he was breathing his moist skunk-like breath over their faces. "What did yew say 'bout pub crawlin' wiv me sistahs?"

"Nuffin!" Ninja Dok said before Oglak or Murkagro could reply. "Yew need ter clean yer ears out."

"Me hearin's fine!" Jamz snarled at Ninja Dok. Sensing she was hiding something he grabbed the Dok by her coat and lifted her off the floor. "Now tell me, when did yew go pub crawlin' wiv dem Deffskullz! I wants ter know."

Brudz had tried to creep away unnoticed but Oric grabbed her by the scruff of her neck. "Don't yew go anywhere! Dere's a problem."

Apparently undeterred by Jamz' anger, the Dok continued to deny everything. "I am Ninja Dok! I didn't go pub crawlin' wiv no one! Ninja's drink alone. Except sometimes wiv Nin-Squigs. Wait, did Oric say 'problem'?"

The girls looked at Oric for an explanation, but Uurgrin walked in and fleshed out the situation with a severe tone of seriousness. "Ongrat sensed a large amount of waagh energy when we entered da outskirts of da city – he suspects it's da Goffs. But da point iz, dey're close, prob'ly no more'n an hour away if dey's goin' hell fer levver, which dey would be knowin' dere Boss. We aint got no vehicles ter out run 'em, so we gots ter hide 'til dey leave Squigopolis."

"But… why don't yer jus' fight 'em?" Oglak spoke up, puzzled as to why anyone would want to miss a good brawl. "Hidin' sounds like somefin' a Gretchin'd do."

The Deffskullz Ork immediately regretted opening his mouth; Uurgrin kicked the bound Orks flat onto their backs. He leant over them, with one large foot pinning them down and saliva dripping from his large teeth. "Yew two don't know nuffin' 'bout what's goin' on! Dere's fwree score ov me boys, an' prob'ly no less den _ten_ score ov da Goffs! Oh, we'll fight 'em alright – but not right now. We aint runnin' from a fight… we're jus' delayin' it. Hmm… yew'll make a nice feed fer our snake."

"Jawge belongs ter _Ongrat_." Ninja Dok corrected Uurgrin. She ducked as his fist jabbed the air where her head had been a fraction of a second before hand.

"Uh… sho what'sh da plan?" Brudz asked, absent mindedly picking at the holes in her top gum.

It was obvious Uurgrin hadn't thought of anything. "Gimme a few minutes," he replied, taking his foot off the Deathskullz. "I don't fink well unda stress." He struggled to think of how he could hide sixty-plus Orks – he couldn't risk using an old warehouse, what if the Goffs combed the city? Stealing some trucks crossed his mind, but he decided that might make things worse – he already had one horde after his green head.

The Snakebites who had been waiting outside began to come in through the hole. Ongrat and Orlen lead the pack, and joined Uurgrin.

"Where c'n we all hide… hurr… Sewers, maybe?" Uurgrin pondered aloud.

Ongrat rubbed his left eye which was dribbling waagh energy. "I reckon da Goffs might look dere… but nice try Boss."

"Yew… I fawt yew were one ov us Deffskullz? Murkagro said in a hushed voice to Ninja Dok. "An' da uvver one too…"

"Ninja Dok speaks to no one but other ninjas!" The black-coated Dok replied, then ran out of the room. A few minutes later, Cezzy-Po emerged with Squigsy in her arms and walked over to the two Deathskullz. "I 'eard yew woz wonderin' 'bout why we were dressed funny… well, troofully, we aint Deffskullz, we're Evil Sunz. We dressed up az Deffskullz ter blend in, an' avoid bein' shot, stabbed or shtomped. Ain't dat right Brudz?"

Brudz nodded once, grinning as she recalled that night. "But don't go blabbin' dat ter dat big fella… 'ee might get offended."

"Hmm… oi, Uggin, or whatev'r ya name iz…" Oglak spoke, addressing Uurgrin. "I fink I knows how ter hide yew an' yer buddies."

Uurgrin looked down at the bound Ork with resentment. "Me name's Uurgrin, get it right! An' what's yer idea? Betta not be nuffin' stupid, or I'll use yer fer axe practice."

"Dress up az us Deffskullz, paint yerself blue… dat kind of fing."

"Hurr…" Uurgrin looked away as he thought. "Dat might work, I suppose."

"Not fer ev'ryone, Boss." Ongrat, who was more on the ball than his tough but not so sharp Boss, explained. "Kargust an' 'is ladz knows some of our faces. Mostly yew, me, Orlen an' some ov da uvver Nobz. Disguisin' da rest ov 'em's a good idea, but we need ter fink ov what ta do about us…"

Uurgrin grabbed the two Deffskullz boys, hefted them off the floor, and sat them on a bench and untied them. "Right, sounds like we've got some finkin' ter do! Time fer a meetin's wiv da boyz."

Everyone present had attended the rushed meeting; it was quick, to the point, and surprisingly less violent (although not without incident). Between the Snakebites, the Evil Sunz, and the two Deathskullz a plan was devised. Everyone would dress like the Deathskullz, blue waagh paint and all, except for a small handful of Orks.

Jamz, being the largest and least known of the Orks, would pose as the Deathskullz' Waaghboss. Ongrat suggested it was best if he, being a Weirdboy, did not hide anywhere near the main mob of Snakebites incase Mokka, the Goff Weirdboy, sensed a build up of Waagh energy and uncovered him. Uurgrin decided to send the Weirdboy, Jawge, Brudz and Cezzy-Po to Shilf's workshop; the Dok still needed to give Shilf his squig-hair transplant. Questions had been raised as to whether Shilf would allow the three Orks and the snake to camp at his workshop. Arguing that there wasn't enough time to deal with every single problem, Uurgrin left that slight crease un-ironed, saying, "Dat's fer Ongrat an' da girlz ta deal wiv."

It was also decided that because there wasn't many places large Orks could hide, Orlen and some of the Nobz would risk dressing as Deffskullz Meks, equipped with gas masks, welding masks, and anything else plausible to hide their identities. Uurgrin was too much too obvious a target to try and hide behind a mask, so he and the remaining Nobz – three of them – planned to hide in the building's attic and hope for the best.

The Orks were satisfied to at least have _a_ plan, even if it wasn't the _best_ plan. Once the meeting was over, everybody hurried to prepare. Thankfully, the building was an old Deffskullz hide-out which had only been occupied by Oglak and Murkagro – they had been left behind by their tribe several days ago, possibly because their clan thought they were dead. The pair had been highly intoxicated and had some how managed to find themselves sleeping in a dumpster. On return to the building, they realized no body was there, and so they loitered about the city trying to figure out what they should do, between doing whatever they pleased. Then, earlier today, they thought of something – steal a vehicle, and catch up! Unfortunately that little part hadn't gone as planned.

Oglak and Murkagro dug out a few buckets of hoarded blue paint, clothes and items the Snakebites could wear instead of their furs. They had built up quite a collection of stolen goods over the past few days thanks to a combination of boredom, slippery hands, and participation in card games at the pubs and casinos.

Jamz' mega armor was repainted blue by Brudz, and Oric applied liberal amounts of blue paint to his own skin – there wasn't much else he needed to do. Once the sun was down Ongrat and the sisters prepared to leave for Shilf's. The Weirdboy wrapped himself in a cloth and mounted Jawge, and followed the girls as they rode off on the bike. They avoided going through the centre of the city, and hurrying through the outskirts to try and avoid too many Orks seeing the giant snake – something that would usually be associated with the Snakebite clan.

When they arrived, the three Orks went around to the back entrance to Shilf's workshop. Several of Shilf's boyz were having a break, smoking cigars and eating when the company pulled up outside of the tall wire fence.

"Oi, who's dat?" One of the Orks called out to the visitors.

Brudz got hailed them, "It's me, Brudz, an' Cezzy-Po an' ugly." She said, jabbing her thumb in Ongrat's direction avoiding looking at the giant snake.

The Orks muttered and ordered the smallest among them to go fetch Shilf. When the Big Mek arrived, he walked up to the fence. "So, ya came ter give me my squig-'air transplant, have yew?" He asked with a slight snarl.

"Yeah, course we 'ave!" Cezzy-Po replied, jumping out of the side cart. "I wouldn't break a promish – not wiv a big lad like yew, anyway. I'm a Dok, I know what's not god fer one's healf, hee, hee!"

Satisfied, Shilf relaxed. "So, why's dis lot wiv yer?"

Cezzy-Po explained their situation to Shilf – ninety percent of it, anyway. She offered her doktory services to Shilf and his crew for free while they stayed – and Brudz' mechanical skills. The Dok made sure to mention that ratting them out to the Goffs would prove unproductive, and that dead or kidnapped Orks couldn't stitch up gaping holes or paint trucks and bikes.

Shilf agreed, but demanded that the snake stay in the storage shed, well away from his Orks – Brudz was thoroughly relieved. The Big Mek unlocked the gate and let the Orks through.

A snicker surprisingly high pitched for such a large Ork left Kargust's grinning mouth, as the convoy of Goff vehicles pulled up on the edge of Squigopolis. Out of sheer joy, the Goff Boss grabbed the boss pole he was previously using as a hand-hold with his mega-claw, and snapped it like a twig. He held it up in the air, and roared into the night sky.

"Yaw mine, Uurgriiiin! Har, har, har!"

All the Orks raised their weapons, joining in shouting and howling, stirring themselves into a frenzy. Ilgil covered her ears as the Ork warbiker she hitched a ride with roared and revved his bike, sending shudders through its rough, stocky frame. The Weirdgirl concentrated on holding back waagh energy, which was quickly building up inside her little body. Mokka, on the other hand, was freely blasting rocks to pieces and setting fire to shrubs with great gouts of green light which erupted from his eyes.

When he was finished relieving himself, her turned to Ilgil with a mocking sneer. "Hold it in much longer runt, an' yew'll pop like a zit. Hur, hur, hur, not dat I care – I'm sick ov 'avin' feeble apprentices."

The Weirdgirl ignored her senior Weirdboy; she was used to his callous remarks and expected nothing less than a degrading comment every time he opened his rotten mouth to say something. She didn't care though as long as Mokka didn't find out she wasn't a boy – Ilgil feared this above all things, for being a girl in her tribe meant only one thing: being caged up like a squig.

Reluctantly Ilgil spat out a burst of energy – there was no point killing herself. She turned away from Mokka so he couldn't look her in the eyes; it was one of his favorite ways to intimidate the small Ork, and she found it extremely uncomfortable and irritating.

"We're headin' inta town," Ilgil heard Kargust yell above the din. "We start da search immediately – question ev'ry Ork yer come across, an' if yer 'ear ov even a trace ov dem Snakebites, report back ter me! We'll rest when I says, an' only when I says!"

Just as the convey began to move again, Mokka reached out with a brass stave and prodded Ilgil with it. "Yew stay near me an' da Minders at all times. No wanderin' off – dis ain't da camp, runt."

"…yes, Masta Mokka…" Ilgil cringed; she disliked having to call the Weirdboy 'masta' but she didn't want to get a hiding, either.

The Goffs headed straight into the heart of Squigopolis, stopping now and then to question Orks roaming the outskirts. Those who didn't answer to the Goffs swift enough were thoroughly beaten. Most of the Orks interrogated said they didn't pay much attention to passers-by, and provided little information. Merchants, on the other hand, proved to be more informative; some of them recalled selling things to Orks dressed in animal skins not too long ago. This pleased Kargust.

* * *

**Chapta 20 Notes: **This is a bit of a filler chapter, to start the beginning of new events and to tie up old events. Sorry if it was boring, but sometimes these kind of chapters are unavoidable (well, unavoidable if you're me…)


	22. Hostile Territory

**Chapta Twentyone: Hostile Territory**

Say of Da Day: _"Oc! Ya dun know da meanin' ov fear, boy, 'Til ah forget ter take me medication." – '_Red Beard' of the Imperial Guard.

Cold mists rolled off the grey stone mountain side, as it descended into the valleys below, leaving the old hot springs resort in its wake. It was a pristine view, but the stench of the Orks who now inhabited the springs put a damper on the ambience; all it did was remind the three Imperials of what awaited them.

"Why are we doing this again?" Marco asked, rubbing his cold, stiff fingers together into a tight ball to try and breathe life back into them. "I thought we agreed raiding an Ork settlement for a kilo of coloured plastic was a no-go when Sam went ballistic in the communications center…"

"That was _before_ we knew the exact location of the kilo of _coloured__ plastic_," Barthees replied. "And besides, we're lost now, anyway. Might as well go all the way, right Sam?"

Sam stood with her usual stoic appearance, weapons still pointed at the Ork's backs with her index fingers on the triggers ever ready to blow them to kingdom come. "I would object to this… but you are correct, we're lost. I don't care about the pool balls, though; I won't be going inside the Ork camp. Especially since, according to our guests here, they're in the possession of a deranged Ork Boss who thinks they're some kind of magical gift. If you want the pool balls sergeant, you will be the only one entering that Ork camp."

"How… how big is their Boss?" Marco asked nervously. "Surely not too big, right?"

"Hur, hur, yew sure are a dumb oomie," Twik snickered at Marco, "Our Boss' about twice me height, an' f'ree times as fat! Ee's da biggest Ork in dese parts, dat's why ee's da Boss! No body messes wiv 'im wivvout gettin' a right ol' clobberin', har! Har! Har!"

Twik's ears suddenly perked up, as he remembered the deal. "Oi, boof, or barf, or whatever they calls yer, where's our cigars an' booze like yer promised us, eh? We held up our end ov da deal…"

Barthees glared at Twik offended. "Stupid Ork, my name's _Barthees_, and its _sergeant_ Barthees to you!"

"Give them their canisters and cigars, Marco." Sam requested, nodding her head at the jacket-full of contrabands that sat on the ground beside the shivering private.

Even Gilda, the grumpier of the two Orks, couldn't hide a greedy smile when he received his long awaited lung-clogging cigars and liver-killing alcohol. "Dat's da way, 'oomie… now, oo's got a lighta?"

After receiving an 'O.K.' nod from Sam, Marco picked up a lighter from the pile and lit the cigars for the Orks, then pocketed it. Fire was a handy thing to have in cold weather.

Barthees backed away from the edge of the ridge, signaling for everyone to follow him. They were on the side of an old road which had been cut into the rocks by the old human inhabitants well over a centaury ago. When they discovered it the previous day, it made traveling much easier, safer and faster. The road wormed down to the Ork settlement which was situated on the side of the mountain half a kilometer away. Far below in the valley, a large dark lake shimmered faintly beneath the thinning fog. Most of the trees had been stripped by the Orks for firewood leaving clumps of grass and smaller shrubs suited to the cold climate sprouting up through the dirt and rocks.

Keeping his voice low, Barthees addressed the group. "Gilda, Twik, remember what we discussed? If you can get the pool balls into my possession, with myself unharmed, the seeds and weed are all yours – which means an ever lasting supply of the brain numbing clouds of glory at your disposal."

"Dat's gonna be an' 'ard one," Gilda said between puffs of his cigar. "Stikk'ead aint gonna jus' hand da coloured fingies ovuh. Hmm… yew got any ideas, Twik?"

Twik wiped a drip from his nose with his finger and wiped it off on his pants, thinking hard. "Hmmm… da only way ter do it, would be ta steal 'em… good fing we're Deffskullz! Heh, heh, we're experts at thievin' ain't we Gilda? But shh, don't tell no one, 'oomie."

Gilda rolled his eyes at the small Ork. "If it woz dat easy ter steal from da Boss, dontcha fink 'is necklace'd be gone by now? Last git dat tried ter steal from 'ol Stikk'ead got roasted on a spit ovuh da fire – or dontcha rememba?"

"Fink I mighta 'ad a few beers dat night, can't say I recall dat incident… oi, dat's an idea… maybe we could get da Boss drunk?"

"No, no, dat won't work; not enough, anyway." Gilda tapped his cigar, flicking ashes into Twik's face. "We'd need ter do sumfim' else… so 'ee can't grab our necks an' twist our 'eads off."

"You mean like tranquillize him?" Sam piped up, impatient to do something.

The Orks immediately agreed. "Yeah! We gots ter tranquillize ol' Stikk'ead! But 'ow's we gonna do dat?" Twik asked.

Barthees had a fair idea that if they were going to tranquillize anything, the Orks would be the ones to provide the means. "You greenskins generally have some kind of nut-job medic around, surely you have one at your camp, Twit?"

Gilda's top lip curled up in a slight snarl. "What, yew mean da Dok? 'Course we got one ya stupid 'oomie – 'ee's vital fer sewin' limbs back on an' stuffin' guts back where dey belong."

Marco's eyes widened. "Sewing limbs back on? Stuffing guts back…? Sounds more like you have a coroner or a butcher than a doctor…"

"Well, that's Orks for you," Barthees smirked. "But they do that stuff because they can put up with it – you couldn't just sew our limbs back on that easily. I've even heard of Orks having their _heads_ sewn back on and surviving it."

The young private's face went pale at the images being conjured in his head. "You mean like a decapitated head…?"

"Yes Marco," Barthees confirmed, beginning to get irritated. "A decapitated head. Now then, Twit, Gilda. About this Dok…"

_An hour or so later, inside the Deffskullz' mountain camp._

Gilda and Twik casually strolled up to Dok Shavgra's surgery and knocked loudly on the door.

"G'rin'ere! Door's open." A loud but gruff voice yelled from the other side.

Gilda turned the door handle and walked in, Twik followed closely behind. The room was lit brightly by several lamp stands and fluorescent light bulbs – one which kept flickering. They saw the Dok; he was standing on a crate, hunched over a surgery table, with medical instruments pinched between his lips, up to his elbows in some Ork's chest. Two Gretchin helpers stood either side of him, one holding a bucket which had some spare organs being cooled in snow and the other manned a trolley laden with copious amounts of disgustingly filthy surgical tools.

Dok Shavgra wasn't a very large Ork; smaller than a Nob but slightly bigger than an average Ork boy or girl, and he had one of his legs replaced with a mechanical one. He wore a blood-soaked barbeque apron over his equally blood-soaked lab coat and pants.

"Wha'd'ya want?" Shavgra asked, turning his head towards the visitors; his eyes looked big and obscure behind the magnifying lenses which were suspended from a leather band strapped to his head.

"We woz after somefin', and we figured yew'd 'ave just wot we needs. Yew got some kinda tranquilizer?" Gilda explained to the Dok.

Shavgra turned back to his patient, grabbing an organ out of the bucket and throwing it hap-hazardly into its new owner. "Gimme a minute boyz, jus' lemme stitch dis git up." Then, with a flurry of hands and medical instruments, the Dok got to work sewing and stapling things together. In no more than five minutes, he was slapping the patient on the cheek to try and wake him up.

"Glad I'm not dat Ork," Twik whispered to Gilda, "I c'd swear I saw Shavgra leave a few ov 'is tools behind in dat patient's body!"

Gilda clouted Twik across the back of his head with his hand, growling, "Shut yer mouf Twik, we dun wanna go insultin' Shav, we've got things ter buy from 'im."

The patient failed to wake up so Shavgra left him to be minded by the Gretchin. With his patient taken care of, he walked over and joined Gilda and Twik. "Now den boyz, woz I right when I heard ya say yer wanted some kind on tranquilizer? What on earf do ya need dat for?"

"Squig 'untin'," Gilda lied; he had the story prepared before hand. "Me an' Twik spotted a real biggun, an' wanted ter try somefin' new ta catch the blighter."

"ow' big's 'big'?" Shav asked curiously.

"Oh… 'bout da size of da Boss, maybe a bit bigga…"

Shavgra nodded, entwining his bloody fingers together in a business-like manner. "Sounds like ya need somefin' nice and strong, eh? Come right dis way boys, I got all kinds ov drugs and chemicals as long as yew have da teef."

Gilda smiled as he followed Shav out into an adjacent room "An' dat we do, Shav, dat we do."

The room was long and thin, in fact, it was actually a large walk-in linen closet before the Orks slaughtered the humans and moved in. Now, it was a chemical factory; Shav not only had the walls lined with bottles of his concoctions, but had several stills and conical tubes set up, bubbling away.

"I'm feelin' a bit light 'eaded…" Twik shook himself to try and bring back his senses; the confined space wasn't ventilated well and the fumes were getting to him.

If Gilda was feeling the affects, he wasn't showing it. "Nice collection Shav, so which one of dese bottles will do da job?"

Shavgra pulled over a stool and climbed up, reaching for an old beer bottle with a cork in it. The new label read '_Shav's Special'_. "Dis one should do da trick."

"Is dat wot yew use on yer patients?" Twik asked sounding slightly dazed.

"Nah, I just use a iron bar on me patients. Does da job nice an' fast, an' I don't 'ave ter worry about it runnin' out of iron bars, hur, hur." Shav replied. "Now, dis'll cost ya twenty teef. Yew got that?"

Between them, the two Orks had enough to pay the exuberant fee Shavgra demanded. They didn't argue, for they knew that would only mean a price raise. Shavgra handed the bottle to Gilda, and the three walked out.

"Nice doin' business wiv yew boys," the Dok said showing them to the door. "Come back if yew ever need anyfin' – I got everyfin' in between an' includen' poisons an' cures for all yaw healf and recreational needs."

Twik waved an enthusiastic good-bye to Shavgra as he walked away with Gilda. "Bye bye Dok, we should 'ang out sometime! Yaw place smells reeeaaal good, hur, hur. Zzzzing!"

Gilda pushed the smaller Ork into the railing. "Oh shut yer trap, yer stoned. Yew talk shit when yer stoned."

Shavgra laughed to himself as he watched to pair and their antics. When they were out of ear shot the Dok smiled saying with a genuine tone, "a tranquilized squig aint no fun. They'll thank me later."

_Back outside the camp, approximately another hour later._

Barthees, Marco and Sam were hiding behind some boulders on the side of the road, out of sight from any Orks that might walk by. Barthees had borrowed Sam's flexi scope to keep an eye out for Gilda and Twik.

"I can see them coming," He announced as he spotted the Orks' heads rising above the slope of the path. "They'll be here in about five minutes."

As the Orks approached, Barthees waved to them from behind the boulder, and signaled for them to come closer. The Orks obliged, and Gilda quickly explained how there mission was a success.

"Shavgra sold us dis 'ere bottle, 'ee says it'll do just what we wants – tranquilize somefin' big, like Boss Stikk'ead, hur, hur, hur! 'Ee 'ad no idea we was actually plannin' ter use it on da Boss… we told 'im it woz fer a big squig we woz huntin'."

Barthees took the bottle and inspected it. "What's this garbage on the front say?" He said, pointing to the label.

"Dat says, _Shav's Special_," Twik said, translating the Orkish glyphs. "An' it betta be somefin' zoggin' special fer da price we paid. Oh, dat reminds me. I stole dis."

The Ork pulled a large syringe out from his clothes; the needle on it was slightly rusty but looked fit enough for the job. "Took it when Shavgra was walkin' inta da lab wiv Gilda."

"For a pair of Orks, you've done a good job so far." Barthees said, giving the Orks their first real compliment. "Now, let's work out the next step…"

Before the real planning began, Sam had insisted that they negotiate with the Orks to get some food. It took some time to convince the Gilda and Twik to bring them some meat; the Orks weren't going to do anything for free – especially for humans. Eventually Barthees offered to trade the confiscated items – including shootas and choppas - in return for food. If it wasn't for their growling stomachs, Barthees would have never even suggested the idea. He hoped that the threat of blowing up the stash was enough to keep Gilda and Twik from trying to kill them.

Fortunately, no blood was spilt when the Orks got their possessions back. Gilda sent Twik to get the meat, and when he returned, the five found a crevice off the road on the rocky slope to hide in while they ate and discussed what to do next. Despite the apparent truce, it was clear a new tension had grown between the humans and Orks; neither party trusted the other, even if no one had expressed it verbally. Sam, Marco and Barthees kept their weapons in one hand and ate with the other; the Orks didn't have their shootas or choppas in their grasps, but they kept them very close. The distrust made planning difficult and time consuming.

"Look, you stupid greenskin, if you do as I tell you then you get the grass!" Barthees spat angrily; Gilda had been insisting the sergeant go inside the camp and 'help dope da Boss'. Barthees didn't see the need to help, when the Orks could simply do it themselves. "Get Twik to help! He's in on this too, you know."  
"Well I aint gonna jus' waltz up to da Boss an' inject 'im! Gotta be sneaky, an' dat requites yaw 'elp!" Gilda pulled out another cigar, and lit it with a new lighter he had got from the Ork camp. "Twik's gonna 'elp me distract da Boss, while yew get 'im from b'hind."

"Sounds like you already _have_ a plan." Sam commented dryly.

Gilda shrugged, taking a puff of his cigar. "Well, yew lot don't 'ave a plan!"

Barthees didn't like where this was heading – Ork plans were as dodgy as their vehicles. "Why do you need me to do the sneaking? There's a hundred other Orks in your camp who can do it!"

Twik was about to open his mouth when Gilda thumped his jaw shut again with his fist. "Can't trust 'em ta do it right, an' b'sides, dey'll demand a share ov da seeds."

"Oh, ho ho!" Barthees slapped his hand on his thigh in mock amusement. "That's a first! An Ork who trusts _humans_ more than his own kind. Give me a break Gilda, I'm not an idiot."

"C-can I make a suggestion…?"

Everyone looked at Marco; he had been silent until now. Sam encouraged her fellow private to speak, before Barthees had a chance to say something mean and deflate what little courage Marco had left. "Go on, it couldn't be as stupid as anything those three have been arguing about so far."

Marco gave Sam a small nod of appreciation, and raised his voice slightly so everyone could hear him. "Who said we need to go inside the camp… why don't we just get the Boss to come out by himself? If he's insane, I'm sure he'd buy any story…"

Barthees looked from the Orks to Marco stunned. "I can't believe… you just… you said something meaningful and intelligent for change! I like your idea."

Gilda and Twik looked at Marco with narrowed eyes. They were trying to figure out if his idea really was better than theirs.

"It's a good plan, I like it." Sam agreed with the sergeant. "Tell us, Orks, what have you got to say?

Gilda hesitated; he still hadn't finished thinking it through. "I fink… I don't know! Why isn't my plan easier? Yew sure dat liddle oomie fawt ov a good plan…?"

"I fink it might have its advantages…" Twik mumbled, unwilling to assert himself too much in favor of Marco's idea, with Gilda sitting beside him.

After Sam mentioned that the seeds might get stolen if any Orks caught the humans, it didn't take long to convince Gilda that luring the Boss outside of the camp's walls was far better than trying to sedate him inside the walls.

_An hour after dusk, outside the Deffskullz' mountain camp._

The stars were growing brighter as the last trickle of sunshine seeped back below the horizon. Marco, Sam and Barthees were hiding half a kilometer up the road from the Ork camp, hidden behind some shrubs just off the path. They had spent all day refining their plan with Gilda and Twik, and reciting the plan, until the Orks could remember it without needing to think too hard.

The plan was kept relatively simple as possible, to cater for all levels of intelligence. Gilda and Twik were to make up any excuse that their Boss would believe, to get him to walk out of the camp and up the road past where the Imperials were hiding. Gilda and Twik, who would walk with the Boss, were to make excessive noise so the Imperials would hear them coming. Then, when the Boss walked past their hideout, Sam would sneak up behind the Boss and inject him with the liquid sedative. Gilda and Twik would pretend to not know what was happening, and once the Boss was well and truly off the planet with his head in the stars, Barthees would steal the pool balls from around his neck and the humans would flee, after giving Gilda and Twik their promised goods.

"Are you sure you're up to doing this, Sam?" Barthees whispered. "I know you said you didn't care about the pool balls…"

"I don't want to see anyone get injured," Sam hissed back. "And I'm more capable at this than you."

"What!? No you're not! I'm just as capable of sneaking up on an Ork as you are!"

"Stow it, sergeant, I think I can hear the Orks coming."

Reluctantly, Barthees stopped talking; he didn't want to risk being heard by the Ork Boss. If the Ork Boss discovered them, it would be a nightmare.

The voices slowly rose in volume; their speech was inaudible at first, but as they drew closer, the Imperials could catch snatches of what was being said. Stikk'ead the Deffskullz' lunatic Boss had a far deeper and guttural voice then either Gilda or Twik, and his sentences were garbled with his constant grunting and snorting.

"Ah… could yer please repeat dat Boss, I didn't catch what yer said, Boss…" Gilda asked Stikk'ead politely.

Stikk'ead snarled in irritation saying, "Clean yer fraggin' ears out, boy! _Snort!_ I _said_ if yer lyin' 'bout dis, I'll turn ya inside out an' feed yer to da Squigs!" He said something afterwards, but no one could make out what he was saying from all the grunts.

"Boss, we left our shootas an' choppas at da camp like you told us to," Twik explained, reminding Stikk'ead they were unarmed. "An' all da uvver ladz are back at camp – we aint stupid enough ter try anyfin' funny wiv yew, Boss – not since yew got da biggest choppas and da bestest shootas…even wivvout weapons, yer dead killy."

Stikk'ead was pleased with Twik's compliment, and patted the small Ork on the back – nearly flattening him. "Yew might live long enough ter grow into a big Nob. Sometimes I wonders if yer aint a smartboy, or sumfin'."

Gilda snorted a laugh. "Twik? A smartboy? Boss, da amount of beer dat lad drinks, I doubt 'ee's got da brainz _left_ ter be a smartboy."

"If I reckonz 'ee's a smartboy," Stikk'ead growled, "den I reckonz I'm right! Oi, did yew lot see dat?"

The humans froze; had the Ork Boss somehow seen them? The Orks weren't close enough to be seen properly from the Imperials' hiding place, but they saw the dull glow of the Orks' bare-flamed torches.

"I fawt I saw a Gork or Mork! Real big an' dead killy lookin'."

Gilda and Twik knew when it was best to just agree with whatever their deranged Boss was babbling about; it was also a chance for them to make their story more believable. "Oh yes Boss, ya must be right! I only saw a slight sumfin', but yew have da magic necklace, dat must be what lets yer sees da Gods properly!"

"Now do yer believe us dat Gork wanted ter speak wiv you in person, Boss?" Twik asked without being sarcastic.

Stikk'ead broke out into jog and lumbered forward as fast as his two thick legs could carry him. "I never doubted yer!" He hollered.

Worried that the humans might miss their chance to jump the Boss while he was galloping at a top sped with his arms flailing wildly, Gilda tried to encourage his Boss to slow down. "Wait up, Boss! You don't wanna go trippin' over, we've got da torches!"

Stikk'ead ignored him, and continued on his merry way up the road. Sam prepared herself; she could see the Ork Boss's dark shape getting bigger and bigger as he drew closer. Gilda and Twik were not too far behind, with their torches. She would have to wait until Stikk'ead ran past, before going after him incase he spotted her.

"Be careful, Sam…" Marco muttered quietly. His role in the plan was to stay hidden, and do nothing.

As soon as Stikk'ead wallowed past, Sam snuck out and ran up behind him – she didn't need to worry about being too quiet, the Boss was making enough noise to drown out an elephant in labor. The dim light and hard shadows cast from the torch light being her made it difficult to see; the Boss's back was cluttered with garments, armor, and spoons, shoe laces, and other bizarre items. She spotted one of his fat rolls poking out from beneath the mess, and jabbed it with the syringe. She injected the contents, and ran for the cover of the bushes. To her surprise, the Ork continued running and didn't even look back over its shoulder. She looked at the syringe; it was empty.

Sam stood up as Gilda and Twik ran closer, and shrugged. "I don't think he even felt it," she said amazed.

Gilda and Twik stopped briefly, looking first to make sure their Boss was sill running in the other direction. "Ee lost some feelin' after gettin' da fence post stuck in 'is 'ead." Gilda replied. "Didn't ya see it pokin' out of 'iz skull?"

"Well, no, it was dark, and I was preoccupied with jabbing him with a needle." Sam said holding the large empty syringe up. "It had better do its job, that's all we had."

There was a giant _thud!_ And the night went silent. Gilda smirked – Stikk'ead had obviously fallen to the ground. "Da Dok never fails ta do a good job wiv 'is potions, hur, hur."

Barthees came running by, stopping only briefly; he was intent on getting the pool balls while the Ork Boss was down and out. "Get Marco, Sam. As soon as we get the pool balls and give the Orks their seeds and hash, we are getting the hell out of here pronto. I don't want to be anywhere _near_ that Ork when it wakes up."

Without another word, Sam jogged back to where Marco was hiding, and the two Orks followed Barthees to ensure the human stuck to his word, and didn't do a runner.

Stikk'ead lay flat on his stomach on the dirt road; he had tripped over a rock and was having a hard time getting up – everything was spinning around his head, faster and faster as if he was on a merry-go-round at carnival… coloured lights were blinking on and off, incoherent guttural voices were getting louder and louder in his head… and then everything seemed to turn red.

Barthees came to a halt beside the Ork Boss and was pulling out his combat knife; the Ork was moving slightly, but looked incapable of doing anything to defend himself – it didn't bother the sergeant. He took a moment to take in what he saw; the Boss was indeed huge – its arms and legs were as thick as tree trunks. Gilda and Twik had not exaggerated when they said he had a fence post stuck in his head. The post was three-quarters of a foot in diameter, and one and a half feet long. It was jammed into the back right side of the Ork's skull, held in place by metal brackets – taking the post out was obviously not an option.

Gilda and Twik arrived, their torches lit the scene up. Barthees was about to cut the string of pool balls free when he noticed Stikk'ead's eyes were open. "Man this Ork is creepy," he reached out and tried to close the Ork's eyes, but they snapped back open. A deep growl issued from the Boss's throat.

Stikk'ead sprang up with a thunderous roar, sending Barthees flying up the road. The Ork Boss was breathing hard; rancid looking yellowish-brown foam was building up quickly around the rim of his mouth, and his eyes were fully dilated.

Sam and Marco had been running up behind Gilda and Twik – they came skidding to a halt when they saw the Boss rear up. "Holy crap…" Was all Sam could manage to say.

The two Orks turned tail and ran; they handed the torches to Sam and Marco on their way past, not caring anymore about the seeds and hash – something had gone terribly wrong, and they didn't want to risk being torn apart.

"I'll jus' stick to me regular cigars!" Gilda panted on his way past.

Sam grabbed the torches and threw them off the side of the road; she grabbed Marco on the arm as he fumbled with his weapon. "Don't worry about trying to shoot the prick, just flamin' run!"

Stikk'ead roared like no other beast Marco had ever heard before; the Ork shot his shoota in random directions, and flayed his choppa – a chainsword – about wildly. The choppa sparked as it hit the road, and the bullets made loud cracks and sparked as they ricocheted off the mountain rock.

They skirted around the frenzied Ork, going off the side of the road to avoid being cleaved. Unfortunately, Stikk'ead saw them - shrubs and rocks began exploding around them from the rain of bullets. Sam stumbled as and clapped her hand over her right shoulder – she had been hit by a stray bullet.

"Sam!?" Marco whimpered, supporting his friend as they ran on.

"Save your breath Marco, you're going to need it." She ordered, looking over her shoulder. "Damn! Marco, we're going to run down the slope."

The Ork was thundering after the humans, shaking his head like an animal, spraying spittle and foam everywhere. He swung his chainsword so close to Marco that the private felt the rush of air past his neck, and the rev from its small motor buzzed in his ear terrifyingly. He didn't need to be told twice to run down the rocky slope. Stikk'ead followed the humans, not caring where he was going.

"Try not to slip, Marco," Sam grabbed her shotgun in one hand, struggling to keep her balance on the steep rocky slope with the other. "I'll try and trip the Ork up – be ready to get out of his way."

Marco grabbed Sam by the back of her shirt to try and steady her; he felt fresh blood. "No. You get ready get out of his way."

Letting go of Sam's clothes, he raised his gun which was slung across his back. Marco tripped on the lip of a rock and landed on his bottom, sliding down the face of a slab of rock uncontrollably. He turned around, and aimed his laser rifle at the Ork, and pulled the trigger.

Laser fire went in all directions; Sam jumped sideways, to avoid any stray beams. Stikk'ead raised his arms and tried swatting the beams as though they were a swarm of bees attacking his. He growled in frustration, and threw his choppa at Marco. The Boss' aim was as bad as the private's though, and the chainsword clattered harmlessly down the slope.

Suddenly Marco felt himself drop a couple of feet, landing painfully on a stack of pebbles which had built up below the end of the rock slab. He heard the shotgun fire twice, and Sam moan in pain. Stikk'ead groaned even louder as he fell, and began to roll like a boulder down the treacherous slope. Marco pulled himself as close to the short ledge as possible; he closed his eyes tight as the Ork Boss tumbled closer. Seconds later, Marco saw a dark shape roll off the ledge, over his head, and continue down towards the lake below. The Ork's bellowing and cursing faded into echoes as he sped ever downwards.

Knowing that their lives may very well depend on how quickly they put distance between themselves and the Ork camp, Marco ignored the as much of the pain as possible and crawled his way up and over the short ledge towards Sam. She was tangled in a shrub, trying to free herself.

Marco helped pull Sam up onto her feet; she was battered, scratched, and bleeding heavily from her shoulder. Knowing that Marco was about to badger her to treat her wounds, Sam cut him off. "Don't say anything. I'll fix it once we're on the road. We have to find Barthees."

"Okay, okay; but at least let me carry your shotgun for you." Marco took the strap of Sam's weapon, and slung it across his back after putting the safety lock on.

Together, they hobbled up the slope, using shrubs, rocks, and crevices for hand and foot holds. It took them twenty minutes to climb the short distance; they were breathing hard by the time they reached the road. Slowly, they walked up the road in search of Barthees with nothing but starlight to guide they way.

* * *

**Chapter 21 Notes: **Hopefully this chapter hasn't bored you to tears; it's not as whacky as my Ork chapters. I have some very funky things planned for later chapter though, I assure you...


	23. Far From Home

**Chapta Twentytwo: Far From Home**

Say of Da Day: _"…Because I can only put corny titles on the Imperial chapters…" –_ Author.

The night was long and cold; a chilling wind had picked up, forcing the Imperials to find refuge even though instinct told them to keep walking and never look back, from fear that the Orks would find them. Barthees was still unconscious; Sam and Marco had found him sprawled on the mountain road bleeding from his ears, with a broken arm and many small cuts and bruises. Between them they had hauled him twenty kilometres through the mountains – weary, hungry, and hurting from their own injuries. They took shelter in a shallow cave, their need for respite out weighing their fears – Sam and Marco were not far from collapsing and needed to tend to their wounds as well as the Sergeant's.

Marco offered to go find some wood to burn – he was the healthiest of the three, and hadn't lost as much blood as Sam. He brought back a few shrubs, and some sticks he found. "It's all I could find…" he said as he sat down, feeling embarrassed with his small haul.

"That's okay Marco, once we've dressed our wounds and had a few hours sleep, we have to move again anyway. We really shouldn't even be lighting a fire… but Barthees needs warmth."

_Or he'll die…_ Marco thought to himself in his head, finishing Sam's unspoken words. _If only we were back at the base. I knew going to that Ork camp would spell disaster for us._

There wasn't a lack of water, thanks to the snow which began to fall. Sam boiled some of it in a kidney cup and bathed Barthees' wounds; blood had stopped dripping from his ears at least – she just hoped the Sergeant had a fractured skull, and not a brain haemorrhage. After a while, she handed Marco her pocket knife which had tweezers and a small blade flicked out. "I need you to do something for me. Dig out the bullet using the tweezers, then sterilise the wound by heating the blade and pressing it on the hole."

Marco's stomach flipped. It sounded like quite a horrible task, but there was no one else to do it for her, and she wasn't able to do it herself. "Okay… turn around."

He calmed himself as much as possible while Sam took off her top layers of clothing to expose the wound. When Marco's hands stopped shaking, he put the tweezers into the bleeding hole.

Sam gritted her teeth and Marco dug around and pulled the bullet out. "Now, heat the knife… and press it onto the open wound. Just ignore the blood, Marco… I know you don't like blood." She encouraged, knowing her friend wasn't a big fan of blood and guts.

Marco handed Sam the bullet; it was quite large, and would have completely destroyed her shoulder blade if she hadn't been wearing lightly armoured fatigues.

After a couple of minutes of heating the knife in the small fire, Marco quickly applied it to the bleeding hole; blood and flesh sizzled. Sam breathed in sharply as the blade burnt her; it was a necessary evil to help prevent infection.

"Thank you, Marco." She said taking a sip of water. "I hope I haven't already caught something nasty from that Ork bullet."

"You get some sleep Sam, I'll do piquet duty, and keep an eye out for any unwelcome visitors." Marco got up and sat at the lip of the cave, his back against the rock wall as he looked out into the dark, snowy night.

_Black Lake, below the Deffskullz' mountain camp._

A large heap stirred in the shallows. Stikk'ead's mud covered face rose from the water, his red eyes unfocused and twitching. With an enraged growl, he heaved himself up out of the cold waters and ambled onto dry land. Drool slopped from his half-open mouth, and his arms hung limply by his side; he looked like a zombie. Blood and fluids seeped from around the fence post stuck in his head – it had been pushed further into his brain during his tumble down to the lake. That, combined with a massive over dose of Dok Shavgra's 'special' solution, seriously affected the Boss's already compromised brain function.

He began to walk towards the slope, muttering a word with every footstep he took. "Find… kill… slaughter… WAAAAAGH! Find… kill… slaughter… WAAAAAGH!"

_The Imperial's c__ave_,_ fifteen kilometres south-ish of the Deffskullz' mountain camp._

Dawn came several hours later; when Sam awoke, she saw Marco still sitting at the cave's entrance. They swapped piquet and Marco slept for the next few hours, until the sun was well and truly up and it had stopped snowing. He was startled awake when someone's hand fell onto his face.

"Oh my god!" Marco squeaked in panic waking up thinking it was on Ork, only to realise the hand belonged to a human.

"What… the hell… happened? Ow… oh that canes…" Barthees had woken up, slightly confused and aching all over. "And why is Marco curled up beside me like a cat?"

Sam crawled over from the cave's entrance and handed Barthees a kidney cup of water. "Drink up. We have to get moving; do you feel fit enough to travel? Oh, and you were attacked by the Ork Boss – you're lucky to be alive."

"I have a migraine, but I will walk anyway – I'd rather not risk running into the Orks again just yet." Taking the cup, Barthees commented, "You don't look so good yourself. Man… I thought that ef'n Ork was supposed to be tranquilized."

"So did we…" Marco sat upright, touching his numerous bruises gingerly. "I feel like I got stomped on by a Space Marine."

Sitting on the rocky floor, Sam shrugged shaking her head contemptuously. "This is what we get for trusting Greenskins…"

In less than fifteen minutes, the three Imperials were outside walking again; Barthees' left arm was splinted and held in a make-shift sling made from his sleeve. They trundled onwards at a steady pace, further into unchartered territory. They spent the next four hours walking before stopping for a break and eating snow to quench their thirst.

"Hey, look, I think there's an animal over there…" Barthees whispered, pointing to a snow-laden bush. "I saw some of the branches move."

Marco swung his laser rifler up and looked through the sight. "You're right, I saw movement too…"

"Pass that here," Sam took the rifle from Marco. He objected, but was silenced by her glare. "It doesn't have as much kick as the shotgun, my shoulder will be fine."

Everyone waited in silence as Sam aimed the rifle at the bush, waiting for an opportunity to shoot the creature within. It was several minutes before the thing moved again – and when it did, Sam pulled the trigger. A satisfactory squeal echoed through the mountains, and the animal squirmed out from under the bush before dieing.

"What the hell is that?" Marco asked, walking over to take a closer look.

Barthees began gathering tinder for another fire. "Who gives a crap, let's just cook it, eat it, then get going."

Marco stood beside the animal; it was fat and round, with two legs, a pair of short chicken-like wings, and covered in feathers. It looked like a very ugly pheasant, but at the same time, Marco was sure it wasn't a bird because it had a large mouth full of sharp pointy teeth. He poked it to ensure it was dead before picking it up and taking it over to Sam who stripped it and prepared it for cooking.

An hour and a half passed before they left camp; after eating, Barthees had rested his throbbing head in the snow for a short while. They buried the fire remnants in dirt and snow, and hid the food scraps in a shallow hole under a bush.

While they were walking, Sam explained that they were heading in roughly the right direction to their camp. "I plotted our trek in my head from the Panic Room to the cave. Now that we have shifted into a North-Westerly direction, we should at least be heading towards the base rather than away from it anyway."

For the remainder of the day they trudged on until just before dusk; although they would have liked to use every scrap of daylight for trekking, Barthees had started vomiting. Sam hunted out a crevice which sheltered them from the wind and they set up camp. It kept them from view of anyone who might be walking around through the mountain passage, which helped to ease the humans already strained minds.

Barthees fell asleep almost the instant he lay down on the cold rock; his migraine was worse than ever and he was looking extremely pale. Marco napped as well, while Sam kept watch and started a small fire with some tinder they had carried with them – flammable materials were hard to come by in the desolate mountains. Halfway through the night, Marco swapped shifts with Sam; Barthees was left to sleep until dawn, when Marco woke everyone up as Sam had requested.

"Are you feeling any better?" Marco asked Barthees, handing the Sergeant a small scrap of meat and water. "Here's some of yesterday's roast…er… thing."

"Fit enough to travel." He replied croakily, taking the food and water. "I'll be better when we're back at the base. Even those baked beans seem highly appetising right about now…"

Busting for a pee, Marco walked out of the camp and onto the mountain slope. As he relieved himself, his gaze wandered out over the mountain side and over the valleys. In the distance, he saw a small shack perched in a rift on the mountain, sheltered from the weather. He did his pants up and searched his pockets for some binoculars or eyeglass, but he had none. Returning to camp, he reported what he saw and asked if either of his companions had a pair of binoculars.

"We only have the flexiscope, and it won't be helpful to view things far away." Barthees stood up immediately, and ushered Marco back towards the slope. "Point out this shack; it could be the very thing that could save us."

Marco did as he was bid, and pointed to a fissure in the rocks on the other side of a shallow valley. Sam and Barthees slapped the Private on the back, in apparent good spirits.

"We'll head there, and scout the place out." Barthees ordered, sounding less sickly. "If we're lucky, there might be old medical supplies or radio equipment."

"What if something lives there?" Marco asked, considering that it might be inhabited by more Greenskins.

"It's not like that shack is big enough to house a tribe of Orks," Barthees explained, "We'll just kill anything that is there. We have three guns between us after all."

With everyone moving as fast as humanly possible, the Imperials made it to the shack by lunch time. They were lucky to find that a path lead up from the valley to the building, aiding their climb. Where the path had led to from the building was uncertain; there were a few scattered remnants of a human settlement in the valley – bits of corroded, twisted metal, weather worn cement chunks and rotted wooden foundations, but nothing more. Sam suggested that it was perhaps a transmission station for communicating with space stations, satellites or terrestrial use.

As they drew closer to the shack they slowed their pace, ever alert for signs or life. However, the area was devoid of Ork stench and the building was silent. The shack was in better condition than the three had anticipated for a one-hundred year old building; despite the front door missing entirely, the fissure had protected the shack from the weather. The building was much larger on the inside than it appeared; although it has a small frontal area, the building was quite long and had several rooms connecting off the main hallway which ran down the centre.

Barthees lead the group in, everyone with their weapons raised. They checked each room for Orks, making their way to the end of the building slowly. As they approached the last room, something big and hairy sprang out past Barthees.  
"Baaaaa!"  
BLAM!

Everyone's hearts raced, and their ears rang from the noise of the shotgun; but their fear washed away when they looked down at the carcass of the mountain goat that Sam had shot dead.

Barthees checked the last room, commenting, "Well, at least our food shortage has been solved for the time being."

Luck seemed to be finally swinging in the humans favour. By the time the stars were rising, the goat was almost done cooking over a pit fire which had been dug out behind a slab of rock, halfway down the path. Most of the rooms in the building had been pillaged and looted, but Barthees had explored an old cellar – the door to which was concealed beneath an old rug - and discovered boxes of trinkets, including some old computer equipment, and even a faded but still legible map.

Further sifting through the boxes was to be delayed until the next morning, due to the lack of light. While they sat in one of the rooms eating their dinner of goat meat and some tuber roots that had been dug up, the three discussed what they would do when the sun rose.

"I say we see if we can figure out those maps, we can find our way back to base easier." Barthees said, pointing to a dusty box. "We could try to pin point our location by using the old computers to ping base. Then at least we could know where we are."

"That's assuming they work," Sam replied. "Those things have been sitting unused for decades."

Finishing his meal, Marco leant back against the wall with a sigh. "I'm just happy to have a roof over my head, and food in my stomach. A map and computer equipment is just an added bonus. I think I'll be able to sleep more peacefully tonight knowing we have a chance to get back in one piece."

"Don't get too comfy," Barthees snorted. "We still need to do piquet. A roof over our heads and food in our stomachs doesn't make us invulnerable to Ork attacks, you know."

This dampened Marco's mood slightly; just the mention of Orks was enough to raise hairs on his neck. "I'll take first piquet, so I can get undisturbed sleep afterwards. Can uh… I take the shotgun with me?"

Sam ensured her weapon was set to safety before handing it over, warning him, "Don't go being stupid with it."

A few miles away, a large dark shaped trudged through the mountain passage. Stikk'ead stopped for nothing; his head was a sore sight, covered in a congealed mess of fluids. He clutched his chainsword in one hand – he had found it when climbing up the slope back a the lake side. Threads of drool laced his chin and cheeks; his jaw hung half open between his trance-like mutterings.

"Find… kill… slaughter…. Waaagh… find… kill…. Ungh?"

For the first time since standing up and walking away from the lake, Stikk'ead stopped. He was bewildered by the strange sight which met him: in the middle of the road, were two mountain goats, one on the back of the other, both bleating noisily. Stikk'ead watched and waited for them to kill each other; but neither seemed to be giving in. The Ork bellowed a war cry to try and encourage them to fight harder, but this merely scared the goats causing them to part and run down the path away from the Ork. Enraged that the goats apparently gave up the fight, Stikk'ead pursued them, waving his chainsword in an attempt to bash them. The goats were far more agile than any lumbering Ork with a fence post stuck in his head though, and were soon out of sight.

Stikk'ead wasn't an Ork to give up; brain injuries or not. He continued to follow the path through the mountains in the dark, hoping to find the mountain goats and teach them a thing or two with his chainsword choppa.

The next day, the three Imperial Guardsmen were in high spirits; although their wounds were far from healed, they were on their way to recovery no less. Marco, who was the healthiest of the three, was assigned the task of carting all computer equipment from the cellar into a spare room at the back of the building. Sam was on the roof, fixing the antennae; their plan was to try and contact the base to triangulate their position so they could plot a route on their dusty old map. There were many ifs and buts in the plan, but Barthees agreed that it was worth the time to attempt using the ancient computers. Sam suggested that if worse came to worse, the abandoned station could be used as a temporary base from which they could conduct explorations as long as there were no signs of the Orks.

A hatch opened in the roof of the room across the hall from Marco. Sam climbed down the ladder slowly, her shoulder wound feeling stiff and sore. "Well, we won't go hungry, that's for sure." She spoke walking over to where Marco was setting up the computers. "The valley is full of goats."

"We might be able to milk them," Marco said as the thought struck him.

"Uh… I don't know if any of even knows how to milk an animal." Sam emptied her pockets of the tools she had used. "And the antenna is fixed now. It was just rusted through a bit. It's a bit shorter, but it'll do. It's a fair sized antenna, I can tell you that for free."

"Do you know how the generator is coming along?" Marco asked, wiping the dust off the computer screens with an old rag. "Barthees has been out there a long time. Does he even know what he's doing?"

The station was built between two walls of a large crack in the mountain stone. Behind the building was a disused power generator; it was in better shape than most things they had discovered, thanks to towering rock walls which provided it with some shelter from the weather. Barthees had volunteered to try and get it running again.

"He can't possibly do any harm, he said he's played with generators before anyway." Sam shrugged. Although she didn't say it, she was also rather doubtful Barthees could fix the generator. He couldn't even fix his electric shaver. "But now that I've finished my job, I will go and help him – it might speed things up."

"Give me a shout when the power is on. I am almost ready to connect power to the computers," Marco replied. "Just don't go electrocuting yourself."

Half an hour later, smoke wafted through the building. "Shit! Shit! Cut the power!" Barthees yelled from somewhere out the back. Marco jumped up and ran outside; the smoke was coming from the generator.

Sam turned off the power and grabbed Barthees' wrist as he reached for the metal door to the generator shrouding. They heard a loud bang, and the sound of something being sprayed. White foam began to appear around the edges of the shroud door.

"Why did you do that?" Barthees asked firmly. "I was going to put the fire out. What if the generator is fried?"

"What good would opening that door have done? We had nothing to use on the fire!" Sam let go of Barthees wrist and explained, "by leaving the door closed my intentions were to starve the fire of oxygen. Not that we need to worry anymore – it looks as though the fire detection system was still operational."

When the door was cool enough to touch Marco lifted it up. White foam was everywhere. "Thank goodness the fire bottles were still operational," he sighed with relief. "The computers are useless without power."

Reaching inside, Sam felt around carefully with a stick. She felt something springy, and pulled it out. Once the foam was shaken off, it was recognisable as some kind of burnt nest.

Barthees didn't dare look Sam in the eye. It had been his job to check the generator for debris; the fire was by all rights his fault. "Guess I missed that one…"

"I'll uh… be with the computers." Marco wisely dismissed himself and headed back into the building.

"If it wasn't for your injuries…." Sam narrowed her eyes; she was visibly annoyed. "Anyway. Let's try starting the generator again – after we recheck it for flammable materials. I doubt the fire bottles are any good to us now."

Another hour passed before the generator was started; Sam decided to cut the power lines to everything except the computers, to avoid another possible fire. There was no telling what condition the wiring was in inside the building; decades of sitting there unused could have had numerous bad effects that they did not have time to fix.

Most of the computer screens flickered to life; the equipment hummed with age. Marco disconnected the items which did not work and set them aside; he then linked everything together which was operational. Not everything was good to go though; ages of sitting around unplugged had caused another problem – the files on the computers had been corrupted and the advanced operating systems were useless. Marco was forced to wipe all the hard drives until he was left with a black screen and a blinking type icon.

This did not appear to be much of a problem to Marco; he sighed, and settled in for a long haul behind the keyboard. "Oh well, it looks like I'll just have to do this the good old fashioned way."

When Sam and Barthees walked back into the building, they could hear Marco punching away at the keyboard. They walked into the room to see how he was doing; Marco had his back to them, with the screens surrounding him in a semi-circle. Sam raised an eyebrow.

"Why are you typing in binary?" She asked, watching as zeros and ones scrolled across the screens.

"He can type in _binary?_" Barthees said in disbelief. "Or is this just another one of his retarded moments?"

Marco replied to the Sergeant without looking away from the computers, "well if you read everything in my résumé besides the psychology and medical reports, you would know that binary coding is one of my hobbies."

Sam was surprised but not as much as Barthees. He _had_ read everything in Marco's résumé. "But I thought the binary thing was a joke or something… I mean… you did write that it was the only thing your mother found that could put you to sleep as a baby. You have to admit that is a little weird, Marco. It might explain the brain chip that was mentioned in your medical report…"

"Uh…" Sam felt like she wasn't on the same wavelength; she had no idea what either of them was talking about.

"My mother put a computer screen beside my crib when I was a young," Marco explained to her, "and it used to recite fairy tales like Snow White and the Seven Ultra Marines, Little Red Chaos Space Marine, The Imperial Guardsmen Who Cried Ork, Three Little Inquisitors, and many more. It also scrolled the binary text across the screen to match the audio. Apparently it entertained me and was the only thing that would help me sleep as a baby. I don't know anything about a brain chip though."

"The chip thing may have been some kind of clerical error," Barthees shrugged. "It was on a sheet labelled 'classified' and listed several other medical notes, but did not identify the patient. I think you would have known if you had been annaly probed and your skull drilled though. I get strange things like that in the fax sometimes; they forget to take it off the pile."

There was an awkward silence for several seconds before Marco spoke, and began typing again. "Uh yeah… I don't remember anything like that."

"We'll leave you to it now," Sam said as she turned around to exit the room. "We can't really do much to help with the computers, so we'll be out hunting or something for the time being."

It was late afternoon; Marco had been sitting in front of the computers only taking a toilet break once in the time that had passed. He was setting up a program which would send, receive, and convert incoming digital signals into binary. Marco was immersed in his task so much that he scarcely noticed the bleating of the goats in the valley. He barely even registered the noise, and just assumed it was because Sam and Barthees were coming back to the station.

Heavy footsteps walked up the corridor; a horrible stench reached Marco, but still he did not stop typing. "What the hell did you two kill? An Ork? God that smells. Must be big though, sounds like you're trying to drag in an ox or something. What's that? Did yous say something?"

Stikk'ead stood in the doorway to the computer room, drooling profusely. His head and shoulders were encrusted in the blood and brain fluids which were still seeping out from around the fence post stuck in his skull; his eyes were half closed and he shuddered with every rasping breath. He raised his motorised chainsword even though it no longer spun the chain. "Find… kill… slaughter… Waaagh?"

Marco was too terrified to move; there was no way out of the room, Stikk'ead blocked the only exit. He had been snapped out of his work rhythm. Expecting to die any second, Marco covered his head with his hands and curled up into a ball. But nothing happened. Slowly he looked around; the Ork had his weapon half raised, and was staring at the computer screens. Zeros and ones were scrolling across them as the computer performed a function.

A few seconds later the computer finished its task and the numbers stopped scrolling. Stikk'ead began to raise his weapon again. "Find…. Kill…"

Marco began typing at lightening speed; his fingers were pressing the zero and one button so furiously the keyboard was jumping under his fingers. Immediately the Ork Boss paused again, stoped his chant, and stared at the scrolling figures. It appeared as though the numbers pacified the Ork, having some strange hypnotic effect on him. Marco had no idea why the Ork was so affected, but all he knew was that his life now depended on typing; he swallowed. Had Sam and Barthees been killed or injured by Stikk'ead already? He prayed that they would return soon to help him.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________

**Author's Note: **I will put most updates at the end of the most recent chapter, taking them off the previous chapters as I go along so as to keep the chapters relatively "AN" free (but not all updates – just the ones such as this).

**Thanks:** Thank yee to the nice chap who agreed to Beta read for me! Take your time, no rush ;) And thanks to TheLoneHunter for giving me some advice and granting my request – your opinion is also much valued. And thank you to the people who actually read this story and thanks for the two reviews – I always value readers' opinions.

**NEW EDIT - "Da Bad Sunz -Wait, what!?" - **Yeah I thought I deleted all those typos. In some of my earlier chapters I accidently wrote "Bad Suns" instead of "Evil Sunz". I kept getting Evil Sunz and Bad Moons clan names confused. I fixed these errors I found though but if anyone spots anymore please let me know.

**Other:** I finally finished the next chapter - I have been playing WAR online so I didn't do much typing for about a month. Also, check out my profile for story related art and my WAR online details. I will now start working on that thing for you TLH. Should have more freetime by the end of this week - I will have finished my studies.


	24. Filla Stuff N' Announcement

**Filla Stuff N' Announcement**

First, here's a small filler for all you very patient people (holy crud I hadn't realized it had been FOUR YEARS since my um… last update). University and all that. Thank you for reading and thank you for your reviews. I hope the story will continue to entertain. I suppose if no one else reads this, I'll at least enjoy writing it.

**Yes I am going to continue The Orks of Tam'urt**, I'm just re-reading it from the start and fixing errors and making minor changes as I go. Would you believe me if I said I've confused myself with the details? I usually keep a log of events, and a map (that I drew) to help me keep track but I lost those files since moving computers. This process will take me several days because I'm slow at reading (I literally type faster than I read). Then, I will continue on with the next chapter.

**Please visit my profile page, there is a poll there**. Although I have clear plans in my head for this story, I would like to know what you would like to see in the story anyway.

In the meantime, here are three Orky pieces of writing I did for a WriMo mini comp. These are also posted on my DA account under the user name Saiyan-Frost.

The first one has some of the Tam'urt characters, the last two are just random Ork stuff. Not sure if you'll find them terribly exciting…

**Backyard Cricket**

It was lunch time, and all the Orks were at the canteen eating. Glim was currently sitting beside Brudz at one of the benches, trying to persuade her to join his cricket team. He grinned and slung an arm around his slightly shorter companion's shoulders (Brudz insisted it was Glim's boots that made him look taller than her).

"Friendly game ov, er… what waz it again?" Brudz had never heard of cricket before; previously, she refused to play any sports with other Orks because she had a bad habit of being crushed, beaten and coat-hangered; it seemed as though whenever she joined a sport, she _became_ the sport.

"A friendly game ov cricket… aint yew ev'r 'eard ov cricket b'fore?" He asked, but did not wait for a reply before continuing. "It's a game where ya flog a ball, an' run from one wicket to da uvver as many times as yer can!"

Besides the fact that when it came to Ork sports, there was no such thing as a 'friendly game' of anything, there was something suspicious about the way Glim was smiling that made Brudz wary. "Why do yew all ov a sudden want ter play sports?" She queried. "I've never seen yew play any kind of sport before."

"Dere's always a first," Glim replied indignantly. "An' 'sides, I's a growin' lad, I can deal wiv da uvver boyz now. But if you feel yer still too small ter play…"

"Yew jus' try an' STOP me from playin'!" Brudz growled; she hated it when she was reminded of her size. She just kept telling herself that one day she would be a big Nob, and then no Ork would make fun of her except even bigger Nobs (and the Boss).

"I knew you'd be a pal an' join me team, Da Squigeons." Glim said silkily.

"Escuze me, but da _what's?_" Brudz asked, not entirely sure if she heard correctly.

"Da Squidgeons," Glim repeated. "Now den, da first game starts today. So lissen up while I explainz how ta play."

_Two hours later, out the front of the Mek workshops inside the warcamp walls._

"Oh bugger me," Brudz mumbled. It was past half time, and the Squidgeons were batting; the Squigsharks were fielding. Brudz was next in line. "Why'd I have ter agree…"

Just as she had predicted, the game of cricket had been anything but 'friendly'. The two wickets, one set at either end of the pitch, marked where the Orks had to run between and bat from. According to Glim, each run from wicket to wicket scored a point for the team. A batsman had to run as many of these as possible, but if the ball hit the wicket before the batter reached it, they were out.

Not a single Ork on the Squigsharks had hit the wickets – they instead focused on aiming at the batsman. According to the Squigsharks' captain, it was more effective to simply stop the batter from reaching the wicket. It was also a lot more motivating for the Orks to aim at something that was alive.

"Hur, hur, hur! Dezgut's gonna feel dat one in da mornin'," the commentator spoke. "Did ya see da way 'iz knee bent? Nev'r knew it could do dat. Doks, drag dat batter off da pitch. Who's up next fer da Squidgeons?"

Brudz tried to hide behind the other players, but she was booted out onto the field, and her giant spanner tossed to her – it was her chosen bat.

"Dodge an' weave, Brudz, you'll be fine!" Glim shouted his encouragement from the sideline. "Jus' pretend a giant Squig Hound is chasin' yer!"

Knowing that the ball was going to be travelling at more than one hundred and twenty kilometres an hour was enough encouragement for her to run fast without thinking about Squig Hounds; Brudz felt she had some hope though. Before the game, she had taken off her boots and painted her legs red – so they would run faster. The Squigsharks eyed the Ork as she walked bare-foot up to the pitch, and took a batting stance.

"Da next batsman appears to be some kind ov red an' green wicket," the commentator joked. "On wiv da game! I wanna see some guts flyin'!"

The bowler was a large Ork Nob who was missing a few teeth, and had a short pony tail hanging from the back of his head. He faced Brudz, raising the ball pinched between his thumb, index finger and middle finger, ready to pelt it. "Say good night runt…"

Brudz trembled as she held her giant spanner. She watched the bowler's arm moved backwards, and before she knew it he had flung the ball; it whizzed towards her. Instinctively she raised the spanner to try and cover her face; but the ball ricocheted off the edge, sending a painful shock up her arm. Realising what had happened, she ran like a bat from hell towards the other wicket. The commentator was roaring excitedly as he recalled the actions.

"Oh! Da punk hit et! Da ball's flyin' towards Grut – ouch! Grut got hit on da face while 'ee was pickin' 'is nose. Looks like 'is finger's stuck up dere permanently! Da ball's bouncing towards Klanger an' Slitbelly – an' da morons ran into each'uder tryin' ter get da ball. Wait! Friggit's ran an' grabbed et! An' ee' pelts it! Eugh, that would hurt…"

Brudz was on her third run, and hadn't seen the ball coming. Mostly because she didn't have eyes in the back of her head. When she heard the commentator, she had jumped in hopes that the ball would go beneath her. Unfortunately, things did not go as planned; the ball bounced off the dirt, and right into her backside giving her carpet burn, constipation, a severe uncomfortable feeling, and general butt pains. She now lay on the ground; the ball rolled away slowly.

"Ow, ow, ow… oh Gork that hurts! Dis's worse den da time I broke me spleen, or da time I got electrocuted! I'm gonna need to eat coconuts fer a week…"

"You'll live, stop whingin'," Two Doks ran over and picked Brudz up, and carried her towards the sideline so they could get on with the game. "We'll fix yer up, dontcha worry."

As soon as they had administered her with pain killers, a donut pillow, and a little "pick-me-up", she limped beck to the team scowling.

Glim was overly joyful; they were close to winning the game; he barely paid any attention to his crippled friend. "Just ten more runs Brudz, and we've won! I'm sure me an' da two uvvers left can get dem between us."

"Oh, I'm fine fank yer very much. I jus' has a broken arse cheek, and, pulled butt muscles and first degree burns. No, no, really, I'll be okay."

"Er…" Glim didn't register the Brudz' sarcasm. "So does dat mean I can borrow yer bike fer a few days, seein' as yer won't be able ter use et?"

"NO!" She screamed back, saliva spraying over Glim's head. "An' I hopes yer get as badly 'urt while yer batting!"

Three batsman remained; the current batsman was running for the wicket. The ball soon homed in on her, hitting her fair in the stomach and winding her. She keeled over in the foetal position, gasping for breath.

"Guess you're up," Brudz said with enthusiasm, patting Glim none-too-gently on his shoulder. "Break a leg!"

Looking a little nervous, Glim stood up, took a steel pipe for his bat, and walked out onto the pitch. He was greeted with the commentator's usual sarcasm.

"Da Squidgeons is bein' squashed like Snotlings in a stampede! Only da dregs ov da team is left; oh and look, dere Cap'n finally got da spine ter come an play – took 'im long enough! We'll make sure ee plays first batter next game, hur, hur."

"Oh shut yer gab yer mouthy turd," He muttered so the wicket keeper couldn't over hear him. "I don't see yew playin' cricket…"

Like all the other batsman before him, Glim realised just how intimidating the bowler was. He tried not to think about what would happen if the ball hit his arm, or leg, or throat or…

"Save me Mork!" Glim closed his eyes and hoped for the best as he swung the bat. He was rewarded by a loud _CLANG!_ He threw his pipe down and ran for the wickets; the ball went flying up into the sky in a high arch. He was on his second run when the Squigsharks finally managed to get the ball as it bounced around the dirt field. They threw it hard at Glim, from near the sideline.

Glim looked across the field, panting for breath – he wasn't much of a runner. It suddenly dawned on him that the ball was coming straight for him; but before he could even twitch a muscle, it made contact.

Teeth, blood and saliva flew in every direction. The ball had crashed like a meteor into Glim's open mouth, jamming itself in there. At first the Ork had no idea what had happened; he realised he was staring at the cloudless sky, and that his mouth and jaw hurt like the blazes. His hand investigated the source of the pain; and he felt the ball. He sat up and tried to pull the ball out; he could still breathe through his nose, but panic began to set in. The ball was stuck hard.

"Oi, dat git's got da ball!"

Glim looked around; all of the Squigsharks were looking at him.

"Someone take 'im down, ee c'n still run!"

Brudz and the other Squidgeon team members watched as Glim was chased around the field by the Squigsharks; he was surprisingly fast for a stout Ork with a growing beer gut.

An Ork with a broken leg hobbled over on make-shift crutches. "Someone got a camera? We should pin da Cap'n's finest moment up on a cork board, so ee'll nev'r ferget what et means ter play cricket, hur, hur, hur."

**Unusual, Rare Items Up For Auction Today**

Orks don't have Christmas, but they do have Waaghs. Most sentient beings would think twice about getting themselves killed, but not the Greenskins – to kill or be killed was a natural and essential part of their lives, just like eating or breathing.

Shoot, stab, chop, stomp - carnage in all its forms is endorsed by the Orks. Some clans uphold certain methods, principles, and rituals more than others. The Goffs think shooting is cowardly, the Evil Sunz prefer death on wheels, and the Bad Moons care as much about pimping themselves as they do killing things and showing off.

One particular clan, The Deathskulls (pronounced as "DeffSkullz" by an Ork) have a fascination with items: everything and anything that isn't bolted down. Although Waagh and conflict is always very entertaining for any Ork, members of the Deathskulls are natural kleptomaniacs at heart and hand. It is after a battle or scuffle has ended that the looting, pilfering, selling and trading begins. This is where the Deathskulls truly shine.

The Deathskulls don't just wait for battle to get their hands on new goods; some go to great lengths to 'obtain' new items whenever their hands are idle, or they see an opportunity. Some of the most successful Deathskulls even have their own Auction House in numerous Ork cities such as Squigopolis and Shidney.

These Auction Houses are no where near the equivalent of a human or other civilisation's auctions, which are conducted in an orderly, sensible fashion. For the Orks, going to an Auction House can be both exciting and dangerous. Many Orks just go there to watch the riots which often break out, either because there's a dispute between two bidders or an Auctioneer is suspected of swindling his customers. An Ork should bring only what's essential to the Auction House – his teeth, his weapon, and the clothes on his back, for it is not uncommon for his possessions to go missing and a 'replica' to appear up for auction shortly after.

All sorts of items can be found up for auction: scalps, boots, squigs, Grots, organs, skulls, vehicles, clothing, armour, and any number of trinkets – the list is endless. One of the more famous auctions at a Squigopolis Deathskulls Auction House was a stale piece of bread smeared with peanut butter.

Although the item in question wasn't that unusual, it caused one of the biggest fights ever seen at the Auction House. The item was rumoured to have been a gift from Gork and Mork (the Ork Gods), and was therefore considered very lucky (and stylish). It wasn't just the bids that went through the roof – bullets, limbs and stick bomms also went through. The Auction House a smouldering wreck in less than fifteen minutes of the starting bid – after the bread was toasted, nobody considered it lucky anymore, and all bids were cancelled - except for one. A Burnayboy paid two teeth for it because he liked the smell.

**Adequate, My Good Chap.**

"Kapha, yew know yer my best employee. Yew know da ropes ov my Parlour, 'ow ter treat my customers, 'ow ter rip 'em off wivout 'em knowin', et cetra an' so forth. But yew'd be wise, my Orky friend, ter not ferget I'm da Boss 'ere, 'ead honcho, big cheese, yer pimp daddy, whatever floats yer boat."

Kapha was head Dok at Boss Helfar's 'Booty Parlour', a place which offered custom surgery, tattoos, piercing, and multiple other forms of bodily enhancements that customers' desired. As head Dok, Kapha often performed the most complex surgeries (such as brain and head transplants), and cybork augmentation. He also dealt with the customers face-to-face; something that usually only Boss Helfar would do himself. Kapha proved to have almost as silky a tongue as the Boss though, and was assigned 'assisstant swindler' on top of his head Dok position.

Helfar had been keeping an eye on Kapha to ensure the Dok didn't try anything funny since his promotion; all was going smoothly, sort of.

"I aint forgotten yew iz da Boss 'ere, Helfar. If yer don't mind me askin', Boss, what brought dis about?"

The Boss sat in his big leather swivel chair peering at Kapha, who stood in front of Helfar's desk. Helfar's voice was still calm and collected... for the time being. "Perhaps it woz just a mistake on your part. But I thought dat when I tells one ov de uvver surgeons to redo a squig-hair transplant, or put more colour into a tattoo, dat dey should. I've been hearin' stories though, sayin' yew 'ave been belaying some ov me orders. Dat's just not on, laddie. I run this joint, I pay yer wage, an' I'm bigger den you."

It was true… and Kapha knew that lieing was only going to risk escalating the situation from mild to bad. So he told the story straight. "Boss, I only did what I fawt was best fer business," he explained, "cut down on some hair here, use a little less ink there… steal an organ or two in surgery…"

Helfar held up his hand to silence Kapha. He then lit a cigar, and took a puff before talking. "I don't care what excuse yew 'ave, Kapha, da point is dat only listenin' to 'alf me orders just aint going ter cut it. If yew want to stay 'ere as head Dok and assistant swindler, you do ev'ryfin' I says, not just whenever yer feels like it. I knows me customers, I know who can't tell da difference between shit an' clay an' who can. I don't want ter go stepping on da wrong toes by giving less den adequate services to some of da more influential Orks in dis city."

"Adequate? Of course, Boss… I'll put dat on me memo. A list ov names with whom not ter tango might, er, be useful if you could perhaps provide one."

Helfar nodded with satisfaction. "Yer a proactive finker, Kaph. Glad yew saw what I was sayin'. Now den, I believe yer due fer surgery in fifteen minutes. Go an' prove ter me ya know da meanin' of 'adewuate', or else."

With a rather ridiculous salute and bow, Kapha departed the office to leave his Boss to enjoy his cigar.

So, if you want to have some input in the upcoming chapters, now's a good time to contact me via here or DeviantArt.


	25. Slaved

**Chapta Twentythree: Slaved**

Say of Da Day: _"If et's one fing I 'ates... ET'S GITS WIV SMART MOUFS!" –_Ongrat

* * *

"I said yer could stay 'ere, NOT EAT FER FREE!" Shilf had caught Brudz sneaking pie and beer from the kitchen. The young Mek got such a fright she dropped the pie and spilt beer on her singlet.

"Cripsh! Er…" She spun around to face Shilf. She knew she was caught but didn't know what to do. "H-hi Shilf. Um… wanna beer? 'Ere ya go…"

Shilf knocked the beer bottle out of Brudz' hand and thwacked her across the face, scowling angrily, "I'll throw yer in da furnace if'n I catches yer feivin' again! Yew want food, yew pay fer it! No one scrounges from Shilf."

Two teeth had been smacked out of Brudz' bottom jaw – one of her tusks and a smaller tooth. Shilf bent over and picked them up. "Dat's fer da pie an' beer. Now get back ta work, yer lazy Evil Sunz git!"

The Big Mek walked off; Brudz cringed at his new squig hair transplant. "Yew look like even uglier wiv dat 'air doo." She muttered, rubbing her sore cheek.

"What did yew say?" Shilf looked over his shoulder, eyeing Brudz suspiciously with his glinting red cybork eyes.

"Er… I jush shaid yew looks alot betta wiv dat 'air doo. Very nishe indeed. Looksh charmin'." Brudz' lisp had gotten worse thanks to losing two more teeth. She could just feel her new teeth beginning to come through on her top jaw; she estimated they would be almost fully grown in a couple of weeks. It would take longer for her to get a big tusk though.

Shilf walked off again, stroking his long scraggly black hair. He looked like some grossly unhygienic music conductor. Brudz also headed off; she went into the garage where the other Meks were working on a trukk. She joined Glim, where they had been welding before she went to acquire her lunch.

"What 'appened to yew?" Glim asked, noticing Brudz' missing tusk and puffy cheek.

"Whadoya fink 'appened? Shilf'sh wot 'appened." She replied sourly, prodding her bleeding gum. "Ee shmashed out one of me big 'uns… dat shtupid fat git!"

Glim snickered. "Hur hur hur, I warned ya – Shilf's an' 'ard Ork. Don't go mistakin' 'iz apparent calmness fer softness. Ee just likes ter save 'iz breff so 'ee can yell nice an' loud. An' ee' don't 'old back when et comes ter floggin' someone, eiver."

"Really," Brudz replied sarcastically; she picked up a metal plate and put it in place for Glim to weld. "I'd've nev'r gueshed. Glad I aint shtayin' 'ere, not wiv Shilf as da 'ead Ork anyway."

* * *

Cezzy-Po had set up a make-shift clinic in a store room. Some of Shilf's Orks had been getting tattoos and squig hair transplants. Her current patient was Ongrat; Cezzy-Po was just finishing up a squig hair transplant on his chest. The Dok had a strange looking gun which sprouted the squig hair through the tip of a nasty looking needle; she applied it to Ongrat's chest liberally, where he had requested a nice thick layer of hair.

"A little bit more, yeah… ov'r da nips… that's gonna 'urt, hee hee!" The Dok spoke to herself. Every time she pulled the trigger, the device sounded like some kind of over-speeding sewing machine. "…Finished!"

Ongrat lay unconscious on the operating table (which was a Mek work bench that had been dragged in from the garage). After seeing how much Shilf had winced and moaned about the pain, Ongrat elected to be knocked out; Cezzy-Po was more than happy to oblige him with a nice thick steel pipe. To wake him up, she injected him with one of her needles.

"Rise an' shine sleepin' bootee," Ongrat heard Cezzy-Po speak as he started to regain consciousness. His chest hurt; he opened his eyes to inspect the damage. "What da heck? What's dis mess?"

"Squig 'air, like ya requeshted. It's a wee bit blood encrusted." Cezzy shrugged, she didn't know what the problem was. If she had a hairy chest, she'd like the crusty blood; it was nice décor.

"It looks like yer glued ah shrub ta me!" Ongrat sneered as he touched it; it felt rough and tangled. "Ya sure yew used squig 'air?"

"Of course I'm sure!" Cezzy snapped, "yew just got da left overs, dat's all. It's still squig 'air, dun matter where it comes from."

The Weirdboy sat up eyeing the Dok, questioning her. "Left overs?"

Pulling off her bloody rubber gloves she replied casually, "Well none of Shilf's lot wanted da butt 'air, an' I'd run outta da uvver shtuff when it woz yaw turn fer a transhplant."

Ongrat jumped down from the operating table and grabbed Cezzy-Po by the front of her open lab jacket. He pulled her so close to his face that his steamy, rancid breath was practically being forced down her nostrils. "Yer used squig _butt 'air!_"

Cezzy-Po giggled, raising a hand to scratch her chest. "Hee hee! Ya new 'air's ticklin' me."

There was a bright green flash and the door to the clinic and the Dok both went cart-wheeling across the garage; she landed painfully on a junk pile used for spare parts. "Ow… why's dey 'ave ter put rubbish right 'ere?"

Ongrat came storming out, his eyes glowing and his nose dribbling waagh energy. "I wants dis 'air taken out, NOOOW!"

With Ongrat's chest hidden beneath the squig hair, Cezzy-Po no longer felt very friendly towards the Weirdboy; she stood up and pulled out a scalpel from her coat. "Yew want dat 'air removed? Den come ov'r 'ere an' I'll do et for ya!" She snarled, goading Ongrat to have a go at her.

His senses blinded by the battle rage caused by excessive built up waagh energy, Ongrat didn't register the threat that the Dok really posed. Only when he walked over did he realise his mistake.

"Ungrateful git!" She yelled in fury, jumping off the pile of scrap and stabbing the scalpel as hard as she could into Ongrat's bare foot as she landed on the floor. She stood up and kneed him in the gut yelling, "Yer feral, ugly, shmelly grot!"

The Dok stormed off to leave Ongrat hunched over, spewing and farting spouts of waagh energy everywhere. He limped out the back as quickly as he could before he destroyed something explosive such as the canisters of propane which stood in the corner.

After managing to contain himself, he sat down on the dusty cement out the back, and leant against the shed where Jawge was being kept. "Mork almighty! Wot da zog iz wrong wiv dat Dok? 'Er knee felt like a tank 'ammer! Blaaaagh…" He regurgitated another bout of waagh energy which burnt a hole in the cement before dissipating.

Continuing to curse and scowl he pulled the scalpel out from his foot, and threw it across the yard angrily. It was then he heard Shilf's enraged yells from inside the workshop. "I'll kill dat zoggin' Weirdboy! Look at diss mess! Dere's 'oles ev'rywhere! AN EE MELTED ME GUBBINS!"

Ongrat rested his forehead in his hand and closed his eyes with a sigh. He was really in for it if Shilf found him. Deciding he had better stay out of sight for a while, he got up and opened the door to the garage Jawge was being kept, and entered.

* * *

_Meanwhile, at the Deffskullz' hideout._

All the Snakebites mulled around bored; they were getting impatient. They hadn't seen hide nor hair of the Goffs in the area since hearing from Ongrat that the Goffs were in Squigopolis. Out of sight, out of mind, summed up how Uurgrin and his clan were feeling; they had forgotten the finer details of the plan, such as why they were loafing around doing nothing.

"Dis sucks, can't we jus' blow dis joint, Boss?" One of the Snakebites piped up.

Uurgrin had gotten sick of the attic after five minutes of being in there, and had been sitting in the main building with the other Orks ever since. "Hmm… I'd like ta. But we aint got any transport. An' I'm sick ov walkin'."

Oglak and Murkagro, the only two real Deffskullz, grinned in unison. "Oh we could solve yer problem," Oglak spoke.

"Well speak up, b'fore I decides we dun need yew." Uurgrin growled; he was in a grouchy mood.

"We c'd jus' steal… er I means borrow… a trukk or two," Oglak said with a shrug. "We do dat fer a livin'."

Many of the Snakebite Orks were nodding and muttering agreement; it sounded like a very simple plan.

"Ow's I know yer won't jus' do a runna on me?" Uurgrin questioned the two Deffskullz. "Can't jus' let yer walk out'v 'ere, I aint dat melon-'eaded."

"Well, send yer most trusted Orks wiv us. Fwree, four, eleven, what eva tickles ya fancy, Boss." Oglak suggested.

Uurgrin mulled the suggestion over in his head, trying hard to decide whether he could indeed trust the two Deffskullz and a few of his own boys. He eventually gave up thinking, and hoped he wouldn't regret his decision. "Fine, six ov me sneakiest boys'll go wiv ya."

* * *

_Later that afternoon at Shilf's workshop._

Shilf's Orks had already finished construction of the trukks they had been working on that day. They drove them out to the back of the complex and parked them in a secure yard that also enclosed the shed in which Jawge bad been stowed. Shilf filled the garages with more vehicles – not his own this time, but those of a wealthy customer.

The Big Mek stood out the front of his garage talking to his client. "…yaw Mekboyz c'n 'elp, but anyfin dey breaks gets added to da bill, ya hear? Dis's my workshop, and et's my tools in dere."

Kargust was highly irritated. Four of his thirteen troop transport vehicles (basically anything that wasn't a warbike), which included two regular trukks, his own personal battlewagon and 'Destroya' (a giant black crane with a spiky wrecking ball), had broken down just after arriving at Squigopolis, and required towing to the workshop to be repaired. Prior to leaving camp, in his enthusiasm to hunt down and throttle the Snakebites, he had ordered that the vehicles be stripped of any unnecessary cargo (such as tool boxes and spare wheels) to make room for more Orks. Thus, his own Meks had nothing to fix the trukks with, and he was now negotiating with Shilf; a Mek he had dealt with in the past a couple of times before. He knew to be careful of Shilf's exuberant prices, unauthorised alterations and outright theft. But despite these problems, Shilf owned one of the largest garages in Squigopolis and was capable of doing any job fast because of the resources he had access to.

"My Meks'll watch wot 'appens; if dey sees sumfin' dey don't like, yew aint ter do et." Kargust said, laying down some rules. " I'll leave Mokka an' a few boys 'ere ter mind da vehicles, I still gots meself some Orks ter find an' kill. If I 'ear's ya tried anyfin' funny, yew'll regret et Shilf."

Shilf nodded. "Yeah, yeah, I knows, I knows. Don't do nuffin yer Meks don't agree wiv. Got et."

Satisfied, Kargust jumped on a still-serviceable trukk and gave orders to the Goffs who were left behind. "Once yer trukks're fixed, get out dere an' start lookin'! Be back at dis garage two days from now. If'n I gets reports any ov ya woz slackin' off, I'll twist yer 'eads off an' use 'em ta feed da squigs! An' keep an eye on dem wheelz of mine – if Shilf's lot does anyfin' yer got my pamission ter croak 'em!"

Mokka stood in the shade of the garage smirking at the unlucky boys stuck without a ride. He was glad that he didn't have to go trotting around Squigopolis on a trukk of rowdy Orks or stuffed into a side cart of a warbike; although he enjoyed being liberal with his waagh energy, he was most intolerant to company, even that of his Minders. He was very glad to have left them behind for a change; Kargust preferred to cram slightly brighter Orks onto his trukks, so the Minders had been left at the Goff's war camp as part of the skeleton crew.

Although his Boss had wanted to show Gilb-Rer just how dead killy the Goff warband was, and prove their superior kombat skills, Kargust wasn't quite stupid enough to leave his camp empty of Goffs for Gilb-Rer to take while he was gone on a hunt. It would be extremely embarrassing to return home only to be locked out by your so-called 'allies'. There were also things at the camp which required the special attention of Goff-only hands, such as the brewery and the squig pens. Never trust another clan with your food and beer.

Ilgil, who was stuck with the callous Weirdboy, wanted to go with the boyz if only it meant she could be away from Mokka for a day or two. She hated being Mokka's 'apprentice' – he treated her more like his personal slave.

"Yew gotta stay wiv me," Mokka growled at her as if reading her mind. "Our presence will entice Shilf's ladz ter be'ave 'emselves. Dey knows wot I's capable ov if dey cross paffs wiv me."

Breathing in deeply and holding a deep sigh, Ilgil nodded. "Yes, Masta…"

"Wot woz dat?" Mokka snarled, "didn' catch wot yew said, runt."

"Yes, Masta Mokka!" Ilgil repeated loudly but not rudely.

"Good," Mokka handed a couple of teeth to Ilgil from his pouch. "Now go get me sumfin' ter wet me lipz wiv, dey're parched az squig drops dat's been bakin' in da sun fer a week. Shilf's got a beer fridge, go find 'et."

Ilgil nodded furiously, showing she understood. "Yes Masta!" She scurried off to find the beer.

The Goff trukks were pushed into the workshop through the front roller doors, and the crane was towed around the back. An area was fenced off behind the building where Shilf's own vehicles were parked out in the open; the crane was far too tall to fit in any of the workshops.

Brudz and Glim had stopped making caltrops to follow the progress of the monstrous vehicle through the windows of the workshop; it greatly interested the pair. Brudz had never seen a crane before and her Orky mekanical mind was going into overdrive, a dozen thoughts all fighting for brain power, leaving her is a state of semi zombification. Glim, having been in a big city for much longer, had seen cranes before (though nothing quite so impressive) and was instead wondering just how massively destructive that lovely big, round and spiky wrecking ball could be, and imagining how much nicer it would look painted blue rather than black with checkers.

"Aint et boo'ehful? I wants wun. Wouldja make me wun if I paid ya lotsa teef?" Glim asked, unable to take his eyes off the Goff's crane.

After receiving no response from the visiting Mek, whose chin was now covered in drool, Glim set alight Brudz' red singlet with the ignition flame of his burna, always looking for an opportunity (not necessarily an excuse, though) to burn things. The Mek quickly came back to her senses, thrashing at the flaming hem of her clothes and swearing profusely. Glim just stood there laughing.  
"So, wouldja?" he asked when she had extinguished her singlet.

Brudz kicked Glim in shin and replied, "Wotcha talkin' 'bout? AN' DUN DO DAT! I likesh me red shinglet ta be RED."

"Ow! Oi, I woz only messin' 'bout, don' 'ave ta get all grouchy like. An' I woz askin' if ya could make me wun ov 'em," he said, pointing to the giant crane through the window. "I wants wun."  
"I'd want a trukk load ov teef fer somefin' like dat," she replied, admiring the strange, tall vehicle. "Yew'd neva be able ta affords et Glim."  
Brudz had not built anything big before; it would be one hell of a project to design and build a replica of this thing the Goffs named _Destroya_. She might become a very famous (and wealthy) Mek is she could make a few, Brudz mused. It was the kind of machinery which seemed to epitomise many of the high held Orky values; it was gainormous, obviously capable of krumpping stuff, mobile, and very open to kustomisation to make it suitable for any clan. Her gut agreed with this train of thought.  
"Well... wouldja make et if I gotz all da bitz for ya?" Glim asked hopefully, interrupting Brudz' daydreaming.

"I can't right now," she replied regretfully. "I aint gotsh meshelf ah workshop. An' I aint shtayin' 'ere fer long, I gotshta get to da Boss' waaghcamp. Dey gotsh lotsha workshopsh dere, dey 'as, an' dey makesh real big fings fer da Boss. Or, sho me shistah shays."

A grin spread across Glim's mug; a very Deffskullz glint in the Burnaboy's eyes was hidden by his welding goggles. "Let's go an' take a closa look at dat fing. Et'll look betta up close."

Hardly one to say no to eyeing over such fantastic machinery, Brudz heartily followed Glim out the doors.

* * *

Ongrat had been spying on the activities in the yard through a hole in the roof of the Killa Kan's shed. Shilf's bulky bionical Ork creations were asleep, or at least not active, clunking and growling as they swayed and snored, like cattle in a pen. Ongrat was in the loft with Jawge, unable to come out of hiding ever since the Goffs decided to drop by. He was cursing his ill luck; their Weirdboy was with them. Thank Mork he'd gotten some of that waagh energy out of his system earlier, otherwise the Snakebite might have been detected at such close proximity. He could certainly feel the waagh energy of the ill-tempered tempered Goff Weirdboy, and... Possibly another. It was hard to tell.

After the yard had been cleared of Orks, through his peep hole, Ongrat spotted Glim and Brudz trotting out of the workshop. They were making a bee-line for the large contraption that had been parked next to Shilf's trukks. He watched as the pair stood admiring the unimaginably tall vehicle, yabbering away about Gork knows what. They kept inching closer, egging each other on until eventually they had both climbed up onto the caterpillar tracks and peeked into the cabin. A short while later, two Goff Nobz came walking out, armed with choppas and a few loops of chain. They stopped dead in their tracks when they saw the smaller Orks clambering all over their precious _Destroya_.

_Dis aint gonna end well,_ Ongrat thought to himself.

"Oi! Yew two, watcha fink yer doin' up dere?" One of the Nobz yelled out, and they marched towards the crane.

Brudz and Glim quickly jumped down, trying to explain their actions. It may have worked if their stories hadn't been completely different.  
Ongrat couldn't hear what was being said, but the Goffs got straight to the point; they grabbed Brudz and wrapped her up in chain. She wasn't able to put up much of a fight, and Glim had piss bolted rather than loose a limb or have his gut cut open. One of the Nobz carried Brudz under his arm as they retreated back towards the workshop; the Goff Nobz didn't bother ferreting out Glim.

The Nobz walked closer to the Killa Kan shed as they approached the workshop's rear entrance. Ongrat hoped they were going to throttle that little Evil Sunz git; cook her over a fire, or just play piñata. That'd be worth getting a bit blasty over.

"...now's we jus' gotta grab da Dok," the voice of the Nobs just audible now.

"Da Boss'll be 'appy we gots 'im anuvver two for da cages."  
The Weirdboy was left confused; he wasn't entirely sure what he heard, or what it meant. They had mentioned a Dok, though. The Snakebites really needed a Dok, even if Cezzy-Po was from another clan and terrible with hair transplants, she was good with operating on boars and squigs. Ongrat contemplated whether he should do anything; if he could even do anything. He was more than a little conscious of the danger to his existence; but he was also conscious of the very ugly hair doo sprouting from his chest. If he lived beyond the next few days, that would have to go, yes indeed.

He had almost fallen asleep in the warm loft, leaning back against Jawge, after losing his train of thought, when something started scrabbling at the door to the shed. Ongrat was startled back to wakefulness at the sound; his fright short lived when he recognised the snuffling and snorting. It was Squigsy. Ongrat ignored the Dok's experimental pet, but it was relentless with its assault on the shed door. Worried it might attract unwanted attention or stir up the Kans, he climbed down and let the beast in. It had Cezzy-Po's bone saw clamped in its mouth, and ran excitedly on its finger-legs for Ongrat. The Weirdboy held in a shout of pain as the saw cut into his leg, Squigsy was eagerly jumping up trying to climb up the Weirdboy.

"Gimme dat!" He hissed angrily, snatching the bone saw from the squig's mouth. "I don't play fetch, ya stupid squig. Go away!"

Squigsy didn't even look at the scowling Ork, and now with its mouth free, was tugging at Ongrat's pant leg.

"Zog off! Arrgggh... 'ey, wot's dis?" Ongrat spotted something clenched in the squig's transplanted hand.

After wrestling the unwilling fingers open, he pulled out a piece of paper. It had Orky glyphs roughly scribbled on it in engine oil.

"Don't run... or I'll tell... Goffs. I wanna... speak... wiv ya." Ongrat hoped he had read the awfully written note wrong. Whoever wrote this was a very bad writer, even for an Ork, he decided; and, they were threatening him.  
He fed Squigsy a piece of beef jerky to shut it up, and then dumped it out the door; it seemed content with a mouthful of food, and ran away to do whatever it was the squig did to occupy itself. Ongrat didn't know what to do; he was tempted t run, but then, it might have been just been Brudz being her typical git-self. Oh... he'd forgotten about the runty Mek being wrapped up and lugged off. The urge to run became even greater, what if it was the Dok? Squigsy had brought her favourite weapon and tool of the trade. But if he ran... well, he knew he wouldn't get far... even if he wasn't ratted out.

* * *

The stars were well and truly out; Cezzy-Po and Brudz were lying face up on the back of trukk looking at them.

"'ow'd we gets 'ere again?" The Dok asked groggily; her apprehension had been quite violent for all involved, and she had been bashed on the head with a fire extinguisher. The Dok only recently regained consciousness.

Brudz explained the situation to her sister for the second time. "Shilf sold ush to da Goffsh, an' now we're tied up in chainz on da back ov a trukk."

As soon as the first Goff vehicle had been repaired, Mokka had ordered a bunch of the boys take it back to their camp with the recently purchased 'invesmintz'. A dozen or so Goffs clambered on surrounding them, under the Weirdboy's directions.

"Take 'em back an' shove 'em in da cages!" he ordered his clan members. "An' make sure dem Snakebites're behavin' demselves. I don' trust 'em. 'Specially wiv da beer."

"But I don' wanna miss da fight 'ere," one of the Goffs complained. His head exploded in a flash of green light.

"Any uvver complaints?" Mokka snarled, glaring at the boys in the back of the trukk.

Goffs quietly wiped blood and brains from their faces; Mokka slammed the trukk's rear door closed. "DEN GET MOVIN'!"

The engine growled to life and sped off; Mokka may not have been the Boss but he still was big, nasty and extremely volatile. The ride was extremely rough; the driver cut corners and drove though pot holes to get as many city blocks between himself and Mokka. By the time the the Goffs were flawing it out of the edges of Squigopolis and into the desert, Brudz and Cezzy-Po were feeling very tenderised indeed.

"Oi, GET OFF!" The Dok didn't appreciate being used as a bench. "I aint a cushin!"

The offending Sluggaboy only laughed and sneered; the Dok was no threat. "Oh, an whatcha gonna do abouts it, eh? NUFFIN'! Ha ha hahaha!"

A bigger Goff, almost a Nob by Ork standards, leant back against the cabin and sat down, squeezing between their two captives; Brudz and Cezzy-Po did not like the proximity of their faces to his backside.  
"Dish's gonna be an' 'orrible ride," Brudz sighed. "Why's we tied up anyway? Aint we supposed ta be Goffs now or sumfin?"

"We didn't buy ya ta join da Clan," The Nob said cheerily, "yaw gonna be our slaves til da meat rots off yer bones, hur hur."

* * *

**Edit:** Why does shift+enter not work! greeeeeaaaat.


	26. If I Only Had A Crane

**Chapta Twentyfour: If I Only Had A Crane**

Say of Da Day: _"Quick! STOMP SUMFIN'!"__ –_ Killa Kan

* * *

Ongrat had a visitor in the loft; not the culprit who wrote the note, but someone he had captured himself, and was now interrogating.  
"Whadoya mean ya don't know nuffin'? Yer one ov Shilf's lot!" Ongrat said impatiently, trying to keep his voice down.  
Glim was hanging upside down in Jawge's coils from the rafters. After the Goff Nobs had well and truly cleared out of the yard for the night, having decided to work on _Destroya _after the completion of the first trukk, Glim had come out of his hiding spot and, tempted by the opportunity before him, had began filching a few things from Shilf's trukks (such as left behind shootas, cigars and teef). He had been so preoccupied painting everything blue (even the cigars) he hadn't noticed Ongrat sneak up on him. As an ex Deffskull, Glim enjoyed obliging his old habits; he just never let Shilf catch him. He had always been sneaky enough to avoid being caught, until now; Glim was very confused. He'd done everything right, hadn't he? He'd taken his newly acquired goods out of sight behind a shed to paint them. Now his things were piled in the loft, including his burna. They had been confiscated by the Weirdboy.

"I've been out 'ere da whole aftanoon," Glim explained, his brow creased with worry over his tight welding goggles. "I dunno what's been goin' on in da workshop! Oi, can ya at least close da door if ya gonna keep me 'ere all night? Dat breeze is chilly an' I aint gots me burna to warm fings up wiv, fanks ter yew!"

Ongrat looked down from where he sat on the edge of the raised loft; the door was open ajar. He thought he recalled closing it; perhaps the latch was just dodgy. He climbed down to close it. Not out of the kindness of his heart, but to help muffle any sounds that would give him away. He'd gone to the effort of stuffing cloth in his bells, he'd be more than a little peeved if someone overheard them talking and sprang him.

He was pushing the door closed with his shoulder to make sure the latch clicked into place when he heard someone speak behind him.

"Don't move, or I'll pull da trigga!"

Ongrat froze. That wasn't Glim. The voice was too high.

"Turn 'round slowly!"

The Weirdboy did as he was told; he was shocked when he saw a runty yoof was holding him up. The Ork was very small indeed, and it was wrapped from head to toe in black cloth, except for its eyes and fingers. The shoota it held was as long as the small Ork was tall, but somehow it managed to hold it upright, aimed at Ongrat's chest; he had leather armour on, but that wasn't going to stop bullets. This was bad. Ongrat was so embarrassed he just growled in fury; no words came to his mouth.

Ilgil, during her short life as a Goff, had learnt two valuable lessons: the best way to an Ork's heart was through his chest, the best way to an Ork's brain was through his face. She opted for the former this time around because she didn't want to kill the Snakebite Weirdboy. Goffs did not encourage the use of long range weapons, but being a particularly small Ork, Ilgil preferred to keep her distance than loose her head. She was also not particularly fond of waagh energy build up.  
"Ya got da message, yeah?" She asked, looking up at her hostage.

Ongrat was surprised. "Dat was yew? Wot da zoggin' 'ell do ya want? An' 'oo are ya?"

"Lissen' up, I don't wanna 'ave ta repeat meself." She replied, and began explaining her situation... and Ongrat's.

* * *

While two of the Evil Sunz members were being carried off across the desert to be delivered to the Goff warcamp, and Ilgil and Ongrat were having a long one sided discussion, Oglak and Murkagro were doing their clan very proud indeed. They had liberated three trukks with the help of Uurgrin's warriors, and were just arriving back at the hideout; they parked the trukks around the back, unable to fit them in the building. The disguised Snakebites went out to see what the boys had managed to get their hands on.

"'Ey Boss, look what dem Deffskullz lads got!" A Nob yelled out to Uugrin excitedly.

Uurgrin lumbered his way to the front of the crowd and was amazed at the sight before him; he had half expected the Orks he'd sent on the mission to end up dead or run off, or just plain forget what it is they were supposed to do. He now knew he'd done the right thing sending Jamz and Oric along; here they were with three vehicles, it was just what they needed to fit the whole clan on and get the zog out of Squigopolis. Gork and Mork had blessed his clan.

The eight Orks jumped out of the trukks, lapping up the attention and admiration of their comrades; they were neither modest nor humble in savouring their victory. Jamz and Oric were especially jovial, but were more intent on getting another drink down their gullets than hanging around with the trukks. The pair figured they didn't need to try and impress anyone with words, they themselves already impressive to look at (or so their logic went). The Nobs would save their breaths for shouting later, and let someone else retell the account while they went to satisfy their bellies.

"'Ow'd ya do it?" A snakebite asked Oglak.

Puffing up his chest, Oglak replied, "Dat's a trade secret."

The four snakebites who had participated weren't quite so ambiguous; they were rather energetically explaining to everyone who would listen how and where they got their new rides.

"...We saw da trukks parked by a pub, wiv only a few boys ta gaurd 'em. It waz da perfic opportunity! Seein' as we 'ad big 'ole Jamz an' Oric wiv us, not da sneakiest Nobz 'round but very killy, we lured da gaurds away so's da Deffskullz boys could work dere magik on dem trukks.

"Oi! Yew lot looks weakerer dan a bunch of small, pink, 'oomies!" We shouted to da gaurds; dat got dere attenshun. Shoulda seen da looks on dere faces! Dey waz real mad; but da biggest ov 'em, a big Nob, smacked 'is boys inta stayin' put, an' dey frew stikkbommz at us from da trukks. But dey missed, mostly. So's from a safer place, a bit more aways, we started slingin' more insults. "Gretchin'd put up more ov a fight den yew lot! Or are ya too scared ta take us on like real Orks? Yeah, dat's right Nob, we'z talkin' 'bout ya!"

An' den dat's when da biggun finally got off da trukk, got 'is choppa, 'n' ee an' da uvvers jumped down an' started runnin' at us! But dat's okay, coz we 'ad a little suprise waitin' for 'em round da corner hur hur... so when dey got a little closa, we legged it! An' dey followed us, right inta Jamz and Oric's killy fings. Dey didn't know what hit 'em, heh heh heh. We got stuck into 'em too, ov course, but we lets da Evil Sunz ladz 'ave a bit o' fun first. In da end, we croaked 'em all real good. Got some nice gubbins, too."

"Let's'ave a look at dem gubbins den," someone rudely interrupted.

"Yeah yeah, when I's finished retellin' da story," the snakebite replied, unwilling to stop until he had fully gloried himself. "So anyway's... no sooner waz dem boyz deaded when da Deffskullz an' one'v our lads pulled up wiv da trukks. It took a bit ov pushin' an' heavin' ta get Jamz on da back ov da biggest one, but once 'ee waz on dere, we took off – an jus' in time! Hur! Hur! Hur! A horde ov Goffs came runnin' after us, when dey saw dere trukks beltin' down da road, but dey jus' got ta suck up da fumes an' our bullets. We waz –"  
"YA IDIOTS!" Uurgrin bellowed, booting the unfortunate storyteller up and over the trukk he had been standing beside. The Snakebite Boss rounded on the other participants, snarling furiously at them, "CAN'T DO NUFFIN' RIGHT!"

_Thump! Crack! Oof!_

"Ow! Boss, what's wrong? We got trukks like ya told us!"

"Ya stole GOFF TRUKKS! Dat's WHAT'S WRONG!"

Oglak and Murkagro tried to pacify the tipsy Snakebite Boss who was very quickly building into a rage. "It's no problem Uurgrin," Murkagro said keeping a safe distance, "we jus' gotta paint 'em blue an' da Goffs'll fink dese 'ere trukks're Deffskullz property. Wiv ya boys all dressed up, yew'll look like a right propa Deffskullz warband."

Uurgrin glowered at the Deffskull, he wasn't calming down any. Oglak piped up, "Oh, an' dere's some cigars for ya... even a few teef dem Goffs left in da trukks!"

The mention of cigars pacified the Boss somewhat, but he was still in a foul mood. "Well den, wot ya waitin' for? Get da trukks painted, NOW! An' fetch me dem cigars. An' I'll be lookin' at yer gubbins, too. GET DA LOOT!"

The Orks scrambled to do as they were told, thankful their heads were still connected to their bodies.

Inside the hideout, Oric, Jamz, Orlen and some of the other Nobs were drinking the last of the kegs. Nobody begrudged Jamz of his much loved beer, but they made a serious effort to try and have a good share before it all vanished down the seemingly endless abyss that was Jamz' mouth. Nobody, that is, except Oric who was most irritated by his greedy comrade.

"Ya aint gettin' dat one!" Oric snapped, swooping up the keg before Jamz could grab it with his mega claw. "Diss's MINE!"

Jamz had made the fatal error of sitting down; he was unable to get up quick enough to thrash Oric. However he did have a nice big shoota. Everyone fled when they saw his free hand going for it; Orlen was especially fast on his feet, he'd already lost two hands once before. He didn't want to lose anything else; not while the Dok was on hiatus.

Oric threw the keg at Jamz' exposed head, clouting him a good one, and picked up his squiggoth tusk club. He swung it just as Jamz pulled the trigger of his shoota, smacking the gun out of Jamz' massive hand and breaking a few fingers; most of the rounds put holes in the walls, but a few found a home in Oric's abdomen.

Ignoring the pain, or simply unable to feel the pain, Oric tackled Jamz onto his back, and the two Nobs began to wrestle. This wasn't such a problem for Jamz who was well equipped for close combat encounters. All he had to do was try and cut Oric's head off with his mega claw, or beat the stuffing out of him with his fist; his inch-thick platting kept most of Jamz relatively safe. In the end though, he simply rolled over and pinned Oric beneath his massive bulk, and was about to start chewing on Oric's skull when something big, metal and blue came crashing down on the pair. It was the now empty Deffskullz beer cooler.

"GET UP!" Uurgrin roared, his loud voice rattling the rickety walls. "Yer on paintin' duty! Make sure da boyz don't slack off; we're leavin' soon as de trukks're blue. Any objecshuns?"

Neither Jamz nor Oric were in the postion (literally) to be arguing with an angry Boss who had his recently resharpened axe on hand. The Nobs reluctantly agreed to supervise; Oric helped heft Jamz to his feet.

"Least I gots meself a couple ov nice new scars," Oric said to Jamz, pulling out the bits of metal that were buried in his flesh. That was the extent of his self preservation skills.  
Jamz tried to think of something better to say, but he wasn't very good at thinking at all on short notice. "Yer jus' lucky I'm painted blue instead o' red at da moment." He groused sourly, and stomped off out the back.

The trukks, which originally were mostly black with white checking on the trims and a lot of rust for show, were very quickly becoming a Deffskulls shade of blue; in half an hour, the Orks under Uurgrin's command had painted two trukks and were almost done with the third. Orlen had also been giving the trukks a quick check over and topped up the fuel, acquired from the hideout.

All had been going well, until, out of nowhere, a spiky looking squig with a big snout came around the side of the building sniffing at the ground madly. When it got to the trukks, it was snuffling all around them, getting blue paint over its hyperactive hooter. It started howling very loudly; Oric walked over and grabbed the squig by its scruff, lifting it up. The squig squealed and snarled, obviously not very approving of the way in which it was being handled. There was something familiar about the squig, but Oric couldn't put his finger on it.

Deciding it would be a tasty treat, he unsheathed his choppa and forced the squig flat on the ground; Oric made quick work of the now shrieking beast and beheaded it in one swing. Something else fell off the squig, other than its head. Oric picked up the strap of leather with what looked like a decorative metal skull hanging off it.

"...Snuffles." Oric flipped the object over. "...Bozd's squig. Don't steal."

Oric was still inspecting the squig's name tag when Oglak came over and picked up the head. "Hmm, looks like one ov dem sniffer squigs," he said casually. "C'n I 'ave da 'ead? I'm 'ungry."

The penny dropped; Oric remembered now: they'd rented a sniffer squig off Bozd the Squig Herder to follow Brudz' trail. The Nob, however, had not made the obvious connection.

One of the Snakebite lookouts came running full pelt around the corner of the hideout, yelling to Uurgrin who was standing back admiring his new trukks, "Boss! Boss! We gots company, dem Goffs're stampin' up da road, an' dey looks angry!"

Oglak dropped the squig head and ran for the buckets of paint; they had to finish the trukks! They could totally deny theft if the trukks were blue. Ripping the lid off a paint can, he threw the contents onto the unpainted side of the remaining trukk and began spreading the paint with his brush; if only they had a sprayer, the job would have been so much easier and quicker.

Uurgrin reacted with a mix of eagerness and uncertainty; he wasn't ready for the fight yet, not against Kargust and his lads, as much as he hated to admit it. The Snakebites were out numbered... but, they did have three trukks now.

He stirred his tribe, and his plus-somes, into action with orders. "Quick ladz, get all da dakka ya c'n lay yer 'ands on an' get on da back ov dem trukks! We're gonna take da fight to dem Goffs, an' show 'em whys we aint dead – coz we's da toughest Orkses dere is! We beat 'em at da camp, we'll beat 'em 'ere. Gork an' Mork's rootin' fer us, so's we betta not disappoint. Oh, an 'elp Jamz up! 'Ee's a bit clumsy when et comes ter climbin' on trukks."

The clock was ticking; the war cries of the Goffs could clearly be heard now. Uurgrin and Orlen went out the front to try and assess the situation. They could also hear the growing thunder of a mass of warbikes and several trukks, the headlights to which lit up the night as they drove closer.

"Boss, I finks dey gots a few more boys den us," Orlen said bluntly.

He was acknowledged by a clip to the back of his head from Uurgrin. "I can see dat!"

Uurgrin tried to think; he couldn't remember what the original plan had even been. Why the hell were his boys dressed as Deffskulls! Oh that's right. It was an attempt to disguise themselves. He wasn't the greatest tactician, it wasn't a very Orky skill and didn't come naturally, but he did possess certain cunning. It was this cunning which had lead to him becoming the Snakebite clan's Boss in the first place.

"I could wrap ya in a tarp an' hide yer on da trukk, Boss," Orlen suggested. "Dey might leave if dey don't know we're Snakebites."

"I've already hid, dis's da Gods tellin' me ta get out dere an fight good 'n' proper," Uurgrin surmised. He felt in his gut this must be it; first, Gork and Mork gave him some new trukks. Then, they brought an army of willing fighters to his doorstep. And this was all after the miraculous deliverance of a Dok and a Mek to his camp right when he needed some the most. If this wasn't divine Orky intervention of some kind, he didn't know what was. "We gets on dem trukks Orlen, an' we gives da Goffs what for!"

There wasn't much time left; Uugrin and Orlen ran through the hideout, grabbed a shoota each from the Deffskulls stash. Orlen also acquired a simple but effective thumping weapon (an I beam) and the pair ran out the back door. The trukks' engines were already rumbling, and Orlen jumped on the back of the biggest one. Uurgrin sat on the back of the wartrakk, behind Oric who was in the driver's seat. Uurgrin preferred this to the trukks, he could get a good swing in with his axe. He ordered Oric to drive out in front of the trukks, so he could lead the charge.

"Which trukk is Ongrat on?" Uurgrin yelled over the shouts of his lively tribe. He was very fond of the sparky Weirdboy, Ongrat was very useful for making things explode. Fights weren't quite as entertaining without his Weirdboy around to spice things up.

"Uh... he's no wiv us, Boss," Orlen replied gingerly.

The Boss clearly had forgotten he had sent Ongrat off with the girls, asking, "What? Is 'ee dead?"

"No, er, well I don't fink so. 'Ee went ta Shilf's wiv da Dok an' Mek, rememba? Dat big 'ole snake too?" Orlen tried to remind him.

"ZOG! I waz lookin' forward to da fireworks," Uurgrin sounded disappointed, but he explained the crude plan of attack. "Oh well. Get ready boys, soon as dem Goffs get close, we flies out shootas blazin', choppa's swingin', an' mow 'em down wiv da trukks! Don't start ya waagh cries til we gets movin', we don't want da Goffs ta know we're waitin' for 'em. It'll be da 'ighlight ov dere day when dey sees us chargin' 'em."

One of the Orks didn't sound terribly impressed. "So's we gonna sneak attack 'em den, Boss?"

Uurgrin glared over his shoulder trying to find the git who questioned him; one of his Orks was getting a bit big for their boots. He made a mental note to wallop the culprit if the loud mouth survived the battle. "It aint sneaky, its cunnin'. DERE'S A BIG DIFF'RENCE!"

Hard dark shadows panned across the yard as the first bikes drove past neighbouring buildings; this was it. Uurgrin gave Oric a tap on the shoulder to signal the advance; the wartrakk lurched forward, trukks following behind. Oric and Uurgrin bellowed out a loud, savage war cry as they emerged out onto the street.

"WAAAAAAAAGHHHH!"

* * *

Simultaneously, Ilgil's plan had been unfolding at Shilf's workshop. It was the kind of plan most Orks despised; complicated, sneaky, and, even by Ork standards, very dangerous and stupid. Glim was the exception; he looked forward to finally getting what he wanted, whilst also setting a great many things on fire. It was the stuff of dreams for him.

The workshop was quiet and dark; it was locked down for the night, Shilf's crew and the Goffs were above in the mess hall and living quarters. Those who weren't already asleep were finishing off a card game or two and having another beer.

Ilgil and Glim would be doing most of the slippery business; Ongrat simply had to wait until the time was right, and pray things turned out. The Goff Weirdgirl followed Glim, who was now re-equipped with his trusty burna, to the back entrance of the workshop. The Burnaboy lit his torch, cutting through the padlocks, chains and the door itself as if they were made from butter. The thin elongate blue flame was so intense it could melt metal almost instantaneously when it was on its highest setting; it was useful for close-encounters and getting through armour plating. But tonight, it was carving a hole through anything that got in their way - including two guard squigs which came hurling towards the m.

The pair gently lay the cut-out down. Ilgil went in first, to make sure there were no more surprises waiting. After she gave the all-clear, Glim climbed through.

"Dere's dem fings I waz talkin' 'bout," he whispered, pointing to a barrel piled to the brim with the caltrops he and Brudz had made earlier that day. "An' over dere's da bottles we needs."

Glim snuck over to the storage room and grabbed a crate, bringing it over to the Goff trukks. They were fully repaired, just awaiting another coat of black paint and a few extra gubbins to be added, because it would have been a shame not to slap on a few more spiky bits here and there seeing as the trukks were already in a Mek shop (the Goffs agreed their Boss would have approved, it only made sense to make their trukks even better). This was a problem for three fleeing Orks, which is why Glim was going to personally see that both Shilf's and the Goffs' vehicles were not going to be driving far at all. There were many ways an Ork could sabotage a fleet of vehicles; the options were endless, the outcome simply dependant on personal preferences and the resources available. Thankfully, Glim's tastes suited the need for discretion.

He used his burna to slice through the axles and taped them together again with duct tape; Glim was no Mek, but he was sure this would prove to be interesting for the passengers. That wasn't the only surprise he had lined up: to ensure that the vehicles did not pursue them far, in case the cut-through axles did not have the desired effect, he'd do an improved potato-in-the-muffler job. He pried the crate open with a crow bar and applied the final touches with its contents. When he was finished with the Goff trukks, he went back out into the yard, crate in tow, and did the same to Shilf's vehicles. The only vehicles left unscathed were the warbikes belonging to the Meks and Burnaboys (they were parked elsewhere) and _Destroya_, the latter of which Ilgil had loaded with as much loot as she physically could (it was a long climb up for a small Ork).

Glim was helping Ilgil prepare the final bon voyage when he spotted a black tarp covering something; he knew what it was – it was Brudz' bike. She'd hidden it in an attempt to prevent it becoming spare parts after the Evil Sunz had unexpectedly dropped by again. He'd almost forgotten about that. What a great bargaining chip that could be... or just a really good ride. Either way, he wasn't leaving it behind.

"Wot ya smirkin' 'bout?" Ilgil asked suspiciously; she didn't trust smirkers. That generally meant trouble for her.

"Slight change o' plans," Glim replied. "You finish tiein' up dem bottles, I'll jus' be a sec."

There wasn't much else Glim could do except very roughly tie, in a hideous mass of chains, the bike to the back of the _Destroya_'s cabin. Unfortunately, the clanking and banging of metal on metal woke up unwanted company. A window opened somewhere above, and a voice rang out.

"OI! Someone's in da yard messin' wiv DESTROYA!"

Lights flooded the yard; Glim pulled his welding goggles over his eyes to stop the glare from blinding him. He had just secured the chains when bullets started raining from above; he jumped down from the crane's cabin, and ran like a bat from hell into the workshop, feeling a few of the bullets find their mark in his hide.

"Quick! Get Ongrat! I'll set it off." Glim ordered, though it wasn't necessary; Ilgil was already hurrying past the Burnaboy.

He didn't have time to admire the stunning work of Ilgil; she had managed to up-end nine propane cylinders, tying them all together with whatever she could find, and then suspended them with one of the unused portable engine mounting cranes. It was situated directly beneath the sleeping quarters were. Glim adjusted the nozzle of his bruna until he had a metre long thin flame; standing as far back as possible, shielding himself with a trash can lid with in one hand, and reaching out as much as his other arm would stretch, he used the flame to melt as many of the nozzles as he could manage all together.

In a matter of seconds the cylinders became crude rockets when their back ends burst and spewed out flames, propelling the mass up into the floor above creating chaos. Glim ran back outside patting out his clothes which had caught fire in spots. He'd been crisped, but it was worth it, and his burns would heal in no time; the night's adventure would be something to brag about with his fellow pyromaniac enthusiasts if he lived long enough. He headed directly for the crane, now able to pass through the yard without being shot at (much). The side of the building burst open sending debris flying when more of the propane cylinders exploded. Glim jumped up and heaved himself into the relative safety of the cabin. He started the engine, and for the first time, was able to play with the controls; the only thing that would make the moment even more enjoyable for the Deffskull was if the crane had some kind of burna built onto it. For now, the wrecking ball would have to suffice.

Another explosion erupted; this one however was bright green, and it had come from the shed. Ongrat had done his main task: waking up and aggravating the Killa Kans, so he and Ilgil could quickly build up waagh energy in very little time. They needed to be pumped if their escape plan was to work.

Jawge slithered towards _Destroya_ with Ongrat and Ilgil on his back; Glim couldn't help but crease his brow when saw confused and angry giant metal death machines come barging out of what was left of their shed, yelling in their unusually computerised chatter.

"Oo woke me up? I woz sleepin'!"

"I'll kill 'ooever put dents in me lubly body!"

"Youz c'n run but yaz can't 'ide!"

"Quick! STOMP SUMFIN'!"  
"WAAAAAGH!"

He grinned though when the first of the Goffs and freebooters come running out, only to be facing the Kans. Shilf's part Ork part machine creations turned their attention, and their guns, to the closer and more numerous opposition.

"Stop starin' an' start smashin'!" Ongrat snapped as he climbed in with Ilgil; Jawge remained outside, wrapping himself around Brudz' bike. It was becoming rather squashy in the cabin, and both psykers were sparking with green energy.

Glim saluted sarcastically, but was not unhappy to start throwing _Destroya_'s giant spiky wrecking ball around. He couldn't help but laugh and scream a little psychotically while revelling in the devastation he was unleashing.

The first casualties were a couple of Goffs; the unlucky Orks were lifted of their feet, skewered on the ball, and then smashed into the side of the workshop. As the ball swung back, it knocked a Kan of its feet, and sent the ball careening into another unfortunate Ork pin cushion.

"I 'ope dis works," Ongrat said to Ilgil. He hated having to rely on the word of a smaller Ork – it was unnatural. "How's ya know ya aint gonna jus' pop like a bloated corpse?"

Ilgil was growling menacingly; not at anyone in particular, just from the exertion of containing the waagh energy in her small body. "I don't!"

She put her hands onto Ongrat's back, giving him instructions. "Jus' fink ov where ya wants to go! Picture it in ya 'ead; ya need to see where ya wanna be, or who ya want to be near."

Glim ignored the psykers as they prepared the escape. He swung the cabin around and the ball came flying by, smashing into the fortified gates, ripping them off their hinges. He drove through the hole, Kans and Orks chasing them. He had assumed the crane was a fast machine, but to his disappointment, it moved with the pace of a legless squig. He may have thought twice about fleeing from angry mobs in _Destroya_ if he had known the Goffs had had to tow it with them to Squigopolis because it was so slow. The only reason it was actually in for repairs was because the engine had become clogged with dust and it blew a piston when they went to drive it through the city.

"Make et go FASTA!" Ongrat yelled, glowing with energy. "AAAAAH!"

Ilgil had to release a blast of energy, melting the passenger door's window. "Shuddup an' take yer armour off, et's 'ard ta feed my waagh energy frew et."

Fumbling with the leather chest piece, Ongrat accidently bumped the controls; the crane swerved hard right, throwing the occupants around, and sending the ball swinging madly.

Glim regained control, swerving again, to avoid running into the side of a building. "KEEP YA MITS OFF DA STIKS!" He bellowed, his angry glare flicking between the windscreen and the Weirdboy.

Ilgil helped Ongrat get the leather over his head, and she threw it out the melted window. Ongrat would have throttled her, but he had more pressing matters to worry about. As soon as Ilgil put her hands on his bare skin, he felt the extra waagh energy surge into him; his brain was quickly building pressure.

"Fink ov where ya gotta be!" She instructed, unsure if Ongrat was coping.

Six Killa Kans had caught up with the crane, and were surrounding it; they began attacking with their massive circular saw blades, and slowing the crane down, grabbing on with hydraulically operated claws. More Kans were lumbering over, firing their shootas; Glim swung the wrecking ball, trying to clear a path, but it wasn't working fast enough.

A green crackling mist began to surround the crane and the Kans. Mokka, having fought his way through the herd of Kans still in the yard, wanted to bring down the thieves; he very nearly exploded when he saw the unmistakable waagh energy – he had felt Ongrat's presence as soon as his rival had instigated the pandemonium with the Killa Kans, but to have him running off with his apprentice – as annoying as Ilgil was, the git was still his personal slave – and his favourite vehicle? That was just outrageous!

Mokka took a deep breath and raised his copper staff, gripping it tightly in both hands as he built up a particularly big energy wave. He released the waagh energy; it gushed from his nose, mouth, and eyes; a materialisation of his fury and the animalistic urge to maim and kill all those who were weaker than he.

_Pop! KA-KRAK!_

For a moment, Mokka felt victorious; but when his vision cleared from the bright waagh energy, he knew something strange... something _weird_ had happened. The Killa Kans that had surrounded _Destroya_, and the crane itself, had vanished; there was nothing but a building with a smoking hole in its side twenty metres away. There were no scraps, no bodies, only a few discarded shells from the Kans' shootas lying around. Mokka had been cheated.


	27. Boss Fight

**Chapta Twentyfive: Boss Fight**

Say of Da Day: _"Quick! STOMP SUMFIN'!"__ –_ Killa Kan

The Snakebites struck like angry cobras. Despite the odds being stacked against them, their growing battle rage energised the Orks into a savage frenzy. Uurgrin's axe claimed first blood, severing the head off a Goff Warbiker who tried to swerve around the Wartrakk. Two more Warbikers and their excess passengers were put out of commission by the charging Snakebite trukks, leaving rather noticeable dents in the grills and giving the blue paint a rather pretty red splatter. The sneak attack had, at the very least, allowed the Snakebites to fight on their own terms.

"Good krumpin', boys!" Uurgrin roared his approval. "Get stuck into 'em! But don't get off da trukks unless ya 'ave ta!"

Goff trukks screeched to a halt to let their warriors disembark; the clan was known for their brutal close range combat, and they wanted nothing less. But the Snakebites just drove around them, and through them, and kept driving: they weren't as dedicated to the art of melee and didn't want unnecessary lessons in it. Instead, they targeted Kargust's ground troops who were still running up the street behind the leading Goffs on wheels, to join in the fray. The Goffs did not wield guns larger than a basic slugga; terrible for long range, rapidly moving enemies. To the enemy's credit, when faced with three charging trukks and the Wartrakk, the Goff foot soldiers did not flinch. They stood their ground, the mob of slugga boys and Nobs absorbing the impact of the rampant vehicles until the trukks came to a halt as though bogged in mud, having carved a path partway into the crowd. The Wartrakk tipped over; Oric and Uurgrin got to their feet, clubbing, chopping and stomping Goffs who had began to surround them, revelling in the escalating carnage despite their predicament. Snakebite Orks remained on the back of their trukks using the vehicles as barricades, shooting and stabbing anyone who tried to climb in or anyone who made a good target. Jamz was the only exception; he'd booted open his trukk's ramp, squashing a few Goffs, and lumbered into the green sea happy to oblige his enemy with the close combat they yearned for.

The Snakebites were not without casualties; their temporary barricades were quickly rendered useless – a hail of stikkbommz, particularly enjoyed by the Goffs, made a very meaty mess of any Ork too slow to abandon ship. The small warband was encircled completely; and things only got trickier when the Goff boys from the trukks joined the combat. Kargust was among them.

"COWARDS! Yew lot won't be callin' yerselves Orks when I'm done wiv ya – cos there'll be nuffin left! I's gonna burn an' stomp ev'ry one ov ya ta deff!" The Goff Boss had been insulted by Uurgrin's sneak attack; to him, this fight had become very personal. The offenders had violated Goff values, and the Boss was intent on making sure he dealt with these miscreants – and take Uurgrin's head as a trophy, and show it to Gilb-Rer. Yet another Ork he hated... he would deal with the other Snakebite Boss as soon as his usefulness to Kargust was over. But he'd cross that bridge (and burn it) when he came to it; presently, he had some serious fighting to do.

Kargust ploughed through his clan members, intent on destruction. He had thought it odd that Uurgrin seemed to be head of a band of Deffskullz, but thought little of it; either way, they were still his enemy as long as they pledged their allegiance to Uurgrin. Trying to get into the fray was frustrating; Kargust quickly found a solution to the problem, using his flame-thrower equipped power claw, he scorched a path towards the Snakebite Boss. Goffs parted like the Red Sea.

"I's commin' fer yew, Snakebite!" Kargust stomped his way deeper into the mob, thrashing out with his great spiked mace or simply burning anyone who got in his way. The bursts of fire made Kargust's innumerable studs and spikes glitter in the darkness; he almost looked like the beast he was named after, with his great demon-horned helmet, volatile temper and gushing orange flames.

The Goff Boss's rampage was rudely interrupted when several of his own warriors were flung at his head screaming, making him stagger sideways. "Oi, Goff, c'mere!" Jamz slowly trudged towards Kargust, towering over almost everyone surrounding him. He pointed his giant cleaver at his selected enemy, challenging the Boss; Jamz snarled, glaring directly at Kargust and ignoring all others. "I's gonna rip ya to pieces an' take dat lubly 'elmet o' yours! I wants et!"

Kargust assessed Jamz as the Mega Armoured Nob approached; he looked to be about as big as Uurgrin. Kargust had never seen this Ork before, but something about his savagery made Kargust wonder if this was perhaps the Boss of these Deffskullz (who he failed t recognise as badly disguised Snakebites) his clan was fighting. But then why was Uurgrin giving orders? They had listened to him. And Orlen was here, he'd seen the familiar Snakebite Mek in glimpses. Perhaps Uurgrin was trying to take control of a new warband. Kargust shook his head as if to clear it of the confusing observations. He didn't need to know the answer to those stupid questions, it made no difference to the fact he needed Uurgrin dead, but he would accept the challenge of this new Boss – Kargust never _ever_ sissied out of a good biff, and this Deffskull Boss seemed quite the fighter. That was one helluva choppa!

"If yer wants me 'elmet, you'll 'ave ta cut me 'ead off!" Kargust answered his new rival. "An' dat aint gonna be easy."

Jamz made the final charge into close ranged combat with a deafening war cry. "WAAAAAGGHHH!" He collided with Kargust, and instantly the pair became locked into a brutal battle.

Cleaver made contact with mace, sparks flying as the blade scraped harmlessly along the shaft of the club, deflecting Jamz' powerful attack. Kargust had the wind knocked out of him when a mega claw thudded into his abdomen, which was protected by his wide spiky leather belt. Jamz took advantage of the belt, grabbing it with the same claw, ensuring his opponent couldn't move far.

Kargust aimed his power claw at Jamz' head, and let loose with his attachment flamer; the Mega Armoured Nob instinctively let go of the Goff, raising his hand to knock the menacing burna away, and shielding his unprotected head with his cleaver. No sooner had Jamz let go when he felt the impact of the mace as it struck his cleaver hand, skewering it and causing Jamz to drop his choppa.

"If ya gonna give me scars Goff, at least 'ave da courtesy ta give me propa ones!" Undeterred, Jamz used his now free hand to punch Kargust in the face. The Goff's studs cut into Jamz' already damaged flesh, but he did not notice. A bloodied stump could still be used to bludgeon an enemy with, if it came to it.

The pair threw each other around, grappling for the upper hand. Orks either got out of the way or got stomped on. Kargust managed to tear off a piece of Jamz' leg plating and clamped onto the Ork's newly exposed thigh with his power claw. The Goff mercilessly flamed Jamz' leg, causing the Mega Nob to go ballistic. Jamz thrashed out wildly; he ripped his empty shoota from its mount and used it to club Kargust, denting the Goff's favourite helmet and nearly breaking the Boss's power claw arm.

Kargust was forced to let go and defend himself. He shot a few flames at Jamz to try and force the Mega Nob to back off, but the Nob was in a complete battle rage; fire did nothing to fend off his onslaught. Kargust swung his mace at his opponent but it glanced off, and his power claw was busy grappling with Jamz' mega claw. He employed one of his favourite signature attacks, a head butt with his spiky helmet. Under normal circumstances this would have impaled the opponent's face, leaving them with a few air holes for their brain and relieved them of an eye; but Kargust instead found his own brain reverberating in his skull. The impact with Jamz' giant metal jaw cover had stunned the Goff and bent his spikes.

Jamz grabbed the demon horns of Kargust's helmet and began smashing the Goff's head into the thick chest plating of his Mega Armour; Kargust's head slipped out. He stumbled around feeling as though the world was spinning around him, and saw hallucinations of green mist surrounding them.

"Hur! Hur! Got ya 'elmet Goff, wotcha gonna do 'bout it?" Jamz goaded, and swung his prize at his opponent but missed; Kargust stumbled and fell backwards unable to keep his balance, inadvertently saving his own life.

Green mist grew thicker, static building up in the air. Kargust's eyes had not been tricking him, though he still thought it was an illusion due to having his skull pounded. The air seemed to fizz, until there was an explosion of green light.

_Pop! _

In mid air, something had materialised; Kargust looked up at the sky from where he lay dazed, unsure what exactly the big black objects were floating above him against the deep purple of the night, crackling with green lightning. The objects grew larger and larger as Kargust's addled brain tried to make sense of the sight, blissfully unaware of the dire situation he was in with a multi-tonne crane and a band of Killa Kans about to drop on top of him like yesterday's squig curry.

Jamz, completely unaware that such events were even unfolding, stepped closer and swung the demon horned helmet down at Kargust, having decided to bludgeon the Goff to death with his new killy hat. As the helmet came down, so did the crane – the giant vehicle slammed down with a great _WHOMP!_,splattering Kargust in all directions and crushing the helmet. The crane missed Jamz by a hair's breadth; he felt a rush of air gush past him when the crane landed, nearly knocking him off his feet. He stood for a moment looking at the bloodied crane, his mind still processing the sudden events. It was only when he looked down and saw a stump of a horn in his hand, and the remnants of the obliterated helmet he had wanted so much sticking out from under the caterpillar tracks, that he reacted... badly.

First his eyes widened; his chunky brow creased into a menacing scowl crinkling his tough, thick skin. Then his upper lip drew back almost like a baboon's, revealing his impressive yellow fangs and purple gums. Then his pig-like nose flared, and his back straightened out of its usual hunch ever so slightly as he inhaled, like a volcano swelling in the final months before its eruption. His exhale was nothing short of explosive.

"MYYYY HAAAAAAAAAT! 'OO CRUSHED MY HAT! AN' 'OO TOOK MY KILL! WAAAAAAAGH!"

Glim was startled back to his senses when he heard the thunderous voice of the angry Ork; he had hit his head, resulting in a bleeding snout and lump on his brow from the control sticks that had got in the way of his face when the crane had come crashing down after being teleported by the two Ork psykers.

The expatriate Deffskull didn't know what to make of the sudden change of scenery; they were no longer outside of Shilf's workshop as far as he could tell. They were in the middle of a fight though; the headlights of the crane lit up a carpet of violent, wriggling, loud Orks; some of whom had paused and looked at the crane in bewilderment.

Ongrat was steaming from his ears, twitching involuntarily, but still alive after the highly risky and unpredictable double-team-teleportation. He began sparking profusely, his eyes watering a little. "Fraggin' 'ell, we's supposed t've got AWAY from all da fightin'!" He complained, curling his hands into fists in frustration.

Glim looked across at his passenger raising an eyebrow.

"Don't yew say nuffin'," Ongrat immediately defended himself, "bein' a Weirdboy's a dangerus occupashun! 'Splodey 'ead is a common cause ov deff fer us lot. An' I don't fancy 'avin' ter test fate twice in a day – I learnt from a very good friend o' mine dat ya should quit while yer ahead. Or in dis case, whiles I still got me 'ead!"

"I didn't say anyfin'," Glim shrugged, feigning total innocence and returning his attention to the controls.

"Get smashin'," Ongrat ordered, "we gots Goffs ta kill. I c'n see da Boss an' da boys in dere – try not ta kill Snakebites, ya understand me Burnaboy?"

Unfortunately, Glim didn't understand. "Just squash da wuns in black!" Ongrat snapped, trying to simplify the instructions. "Oh, an' don't 'urt da big blue Mega Armoured Nob oo's attackin' da back ov da crane. Ee's on our side."

Not entirely sure how to deal with a raging Nob that was trying to rip open his beloved _Destroya_ without being allowed to drop the wrecking ball on its head, Glim drove the crane forward. He rolled over any Ork who did not get out of the way, and turned dead bodies (and immobilised casualties) into a similar meaty mash as Kargust. With his wrecking ball, he played splat-a-Goff, a rather wide and evil grin spreading across his mug once more. He was enjoying his time as a driver very much.

Most of the Killa Kans had tipped over from the short fall, now wriggling and flailing their dangerous mechanical extensions in an attempt to get back onto their stumpy legs.

Goffs and Snakebites looked about stupefied; no one understood what had just happened. A Killa Kan who had managed to stay upright quickly set the scrap back into action when it began slicing into the closest Orks with its buzz saw, and shooting at anything that moved. Shilf's creations did not care who or what they killed, and they certainly did not require any reason: they just did it for the sport and to relieve some of their boredom and anger.

The fight was no longer two sided; it was more comparable to a pub free-for-all brawl. Goff Nobs fought for the right to be Boss once they realised Kargust had been turned into a meat patty, and groups of Goff boys began to fight each other in support of their favourite Nobs to try and win brownie points. Some were left fighting with the Snakebites, which was more than enough to keep Uurgrin's clan inundated, and others still turned their choppas on the Killa Kans and the crane.

Glim was happy to get his share of the action. He screamed and laughed insanely at the top of his lungs, teeth and gums bared. "AH HAHAHAHAHA! Dis's what ya call BOWLIN', boys!" He stopped picking single targets to release the wrecking ball on, and began swinging it through the crowd instead.

Ongrat was still amazed they had survived; he had, for the first time ever, performed an en masse teleportation. Ilgil had explained during their one-way chat she teleported often, though never far, and this is what had contributed to her surviving to the grand age of six so far. She believed that teleporting something larger was possible if she channelled her waagh energy through someone else; her body was still too small to cope with the charge that would have been required. With the two psykers working together, Ongrat performing the teleport and Ilgil acting as a sort of power supply, they'd done the impossible – they escaped! Only they had jumped out of the pan into the fire.

The Weirdboy felt claws rake his side as Ilgil flailed her arms about in panic, regaining consciousness in a confused state; she had blacked out after the teleportation. Her panic was only increased when she saw her old clan mates out the window. Ilgil had wanted to get away from the oppressive Goffs, not end up in the middle of Kargust's warband.

"Stop dat!" Ongrat pushed the flailing bundle of cloth aside so he could lean out of the passenger window, and began spewing out waagh energy. Between energy bursts he added, "Blast somefin', or yer 'eads gonna pop!"

Ilgil squeezed up beside Ongrat, poking her head out the window. She spat out a couple of rather pathetic blobs of green energy, reluctant to do much else.

Ongrat eyed her with irritation. "What's wrong wiv ya? JUS' BRING'T UP! I don't wanna 'ave me 'ead bang coz yew can't 'andle yer waagh energy."

Another blast from Ongrat set a corner of Ilgil's clothes on fire. She patted it out hastily, and spewed out a slightly more proficient energy bolt than her previous wimpy effort. To her satisfaction, she heard several agonised screams as her waagh energy made impact, and she felt a little better.

Below in the crowd, Uurgrin was hunting out Goff Nobs; he had every intention of merging the Goffs into his warband, but to do so, he needed to convince (bludgeon into submission) the other Nobs who felt they were Boss matetial. Was it just luck that Kargust had been squashed by a crane falling from the sky? Or was this another divine intervention? Uurgrin didn't know for sure, but whatever the answer, an opportunity such as this did not occur often. It was time to bash some heads together and show everyone who the top Ork was.

Uurgrin swung his axe at the first Goff Nob he could find, cutting his opponent's choppa arm off, and then beating the Nob senseless with his bare fist and the blunt end of his axe. One down, lots to go.

The second Nob he came across was not as easy to defeat; the Goff had actually approached Uurgrin, and so Uurgrin did not have the advantage of surprise. Armed with a power claw and fierce looking battery-powered chainsaw axe, the Goff meant business.

The challenger stood still a moment, snarling at Uurgrin. "Fink yer c'n jus' waltz up an' be Boss of us Goffs too, aye Uurgrin? Well, 'ate ter stomp on yer parade, but ya aint got what et takes ter lead real Orks! Dat's gonna be _my_ job!" With a final war cry, the Nob literally sprang into action, jumping over corpses to meet Uurgrin in battle. "WAAAAGH!"

Uurgrin's natural reaction prompted him to burst forward, swinging his giant bone handled axe underarm with both hands gripping the shaft. The two Orks smashed together in a flurry of guttural growls, and rebounded almost as soon as they had violently clashed. Blood and bits of flesh arched into the air, torn from their owners by terrible weapons. The Orks were both so resistant to pain that only a visual inspection would reveal bodily harm so immediately. Uurgrin had a gaping ragged wound from right shoulder, down his collar and across his breast from the chainsaw axe, and two cleaner, but deep, parallel cuts on his opposite upper arm. The Goff, who had been forcefully smashed backwards by Uurgrin's rudimentary axe, had suffered a broad cut to his abdomen; if it hadn't been for his thick leather belly armour, he may have not been standing at all.

Neither Ork relented; they rushed in again, uncaring of their own conditions, and engaged in a second more prolonged round. Swipe for swipe, punch for kick; every hit that landed on each Ork was returned with compliments by the other. Realistically the fight was destined to last no more than a couple of minutes, but in the excitement of the battle both Orks felt as if time had been suspended as they revelled in the moment: despite the obvious implications of a death match, one thing was clear: whoever died would do so with a smile on their face!

The Snakebite's leader eventually got in a swing that would turn the tables; he had stumbled back a few paces from a hard blow to the cheek that nearly knocked his skull helmet off. The Goff Nob had taken the opportunity to swing his own buzzing and smoking weapon, but Uurgrin had been fast. A veteran with his simple weapon, the Boss was just as dangerous as, if not more so, than an Ork with a more conventional mechanical weapon with extra gubbins or flash. The Goff's weapon had been forcefully ripped from his grasp as Uurgrin's axe flew in a partial arc powered by the Snakebite's raw muscular power; the Nob was taken aback, wondering how this could happen. When the Goff saw his arm, it became clear how this had been possible: three of his fingers missing, and his hand and part of his forearm had been split down the centre. The last and final mistake the Goff ever made was to gawk at his own ghastly wound imagining how fantastic it would look when it healed with knotty scar tissue, and a few cybork parts added to replace his old fingers. Had he not had the attention span of a gold fish, the Nob may not have had his head hacked off; he may very well have been a Boss if he'd been a little more attentive.

"Dat's wot ya get for bein' such a loud mouf!" Uurgrin kicked the crumpled body of his rival; picking the head up, he threw it into a crowd of Killa Kans still thrashing on the ground like upturned tortoises.

No longer distracted by combat, Uurgrin noticed the green energy lighting up the night; a single thought popped into his mind: _Weirdboy_. He watched as another gout of green lightning emerged; it originated from the crane that had appeared from the sky, and was devastating Goffs. Over the din he heard a familiar voice yelling at someone. He knew that perpetually peeved voice anywhere: it was Ongrat! Uurgrin was very pleased; there would be fireworks after all.

He bellowed to get his Weirdboy's attention; the Snakebite leader couldn't be bothered to walk over – he still had Nobs to thrash, and frankly, the crane seemed to be extremely random in its attacks; he didn't desire tangling with a wrecking ball flying around higgledy piggledy like a squidgeon on Dok jooce. "OOOOIIII! ONGRAT! OV'R 'ERE!"

Most of the green lightening halted, except for a few smaller bursts. The wrecking ball completed its current flight path, crashing down onto Goff Warbikes that had been left unattended. The ball was still wobbling back and forth when the crane's cabin began to rotate slowly on its tracks. Uurgrin wasn't sure why, but it seemed almost... creepy. He wondered how this was possible, because he was a Boss, and Bosses weren't pansy enough to get creeped out. He put it down to his injuries messing with his head. Nothing ever made him feel creeped; it was not a sensation he ever felt... until now... yes. It had to be his injuries. It was just a zoggin' crane after all.

As the cabin spun around, Uurgrin momentarily caught the gaze of the driver. A glimmer reflected off the Ork's welding goggles.

_Shtupid 'urties!_ Uurgrin thought to himself embarrassed. _Dat dam strange feelin's back! Gotta see da Dok 'bout dis if et don't go away. It's jus' not right fer a Boss._

"I fawt I 'eard ya, Boss!" Ongrat stuck his head out of the passenger side window, grinning down at Uurgrin, a little bit of fluorescent drool dribbling out of the corner of his mouth. "What's da Goffs doin' 'ere?"

"Do me a favour an' kill Goff Nobs dat don't wanna lissen to me," the Snakebite Boss ordered Ongrat, completely ignoring his subordinate's question. "An' 'ow did ya pop outta da sky like dat? Dat's weird!"

Ongrat exhaled out his nose noisily, irritated but used to not having his questions answered. "Dat's why I's called a Weirdboy, Boss. It's a long story, tell ya later, when we aint got dese gits ter worry 'bout stabbin' us ta deff."

The mass brawl was beginning to wane. A large number of Orks had been killed or injured to the point they couldn't fight anymore, and some Orks had decided that looting corpses would be profitable. Those that were left clashing were gravitating into smaller groups, alongside the remaining top Nobs – including Jamz and Oric. Uurgrin drew his lips back in a snarl; that could be problematic. He'd have to somehow belt the pair into compliance, and he didn't have many Snakebites left to back him up.

Another chill rippled down his spine. Instinctively he turned around, and saw the crane was crawling closer slowly. It dawned on Uurgrin that there was a very simple solution to his problem. It was standing right behind him with a suspiciously smirking Deffskull at its controls. He ran up to the crane and yelled at Ongrat, "Why's dere a Deffskull lad drivin' dis? It's Snakebite property!" Uurgrin began climbing up the side of the crane on the passenger side without waiting for a reply.

Glim did not appreciate what he had heard; as far as he was concerned, he was the sole owner of the wonderful destructive contraption. "Knew I shoulda painted et sooner!" He grumbled angrily to himself, roughly jolting the control sticks, taking his frustrations out on anything that made an amusing target. There was no point arguing with the Snakebite Boss. He'd just get his head kicked in if he did so.

The cabin was about to become very cramped, so Ongrat opted to ride on top of the crane with Jawge to make room for Uurgrin. Ilgil followed the older psyker out; past experience had taught her to avoid large Orks when possible. Once the Boss was in the cabin, he slammed the door shut beside him, and immediately Glim felt a stare drilling into the side of his head. He grabbed his burna that was beside him, and pulled it closer for comfort, keeping his gaze forward to avoid looking the Boss in the eye.

To Glim's relief the awkward silence had been interrupted when Uurgrin bellowed out to his Weirdboy, "Oi, Ongrat, where's da Dok? I needs 'er."

A large scaly head appeared beside the passenger window as Jawge, the Weirdboy sitting with his legs wrapped around its neck just below the jaw, lowered itself so its rider could speak to Uurgrin face to face. "Oh... I forgot 'bout dem. Uh... well. Ya see, Boss..."

"Whadoya mean ya fergot 'bouts 'em? Wot, didja leave da Dok behind?" Uurgrin interrupted impatiently.

"No, Boss. Mokka bought 'em off Shilf, an' sent 'em back to da Goff's camp as slaves."

Ongrat tugged at Jawge's reigns to retreat, but a thick green arm flew out the window and grabbed a fistful of the Weirdboy's recently transplanted chest hair. "ARE YEW TELLIN' ME WE AINT GOT A DOK NO MORE?" Images of his clan charging into battle mounted on cyboars vaporised from Uurgrin's mind. Without a Dok, he wouldn't be able to have the wheeled steeds that he loved so much. He may as well not even have any Meks without a Dok. Speaking of which... "An' wot about dat runty Mek?" Uurgrin's voice was deadly quiet.

Fearing his life would end not with an explosion but with an implosion, Ongrat tried his best to pacify Uurgrin. "It aint so bad, Boss... ya still got Orlen, an' you'll soon 'ave all dese 'ere boys followin' ya, right? Why not jus' barge into da camp an' snatch da girls back. Most ov da Goff's're 'ere in Squigopolis. Dere camp must be as defenceless as a stinger squig wiv et's tail torn off." Well, it was sort of half true; but Ongrat didn't want to elaborate on the details – they might make the idea sound a little less appealing.

The Boss let go of Ongrat's chest hair. "S'pose dat's a good plan," Uurgrin mused; it did sound simple. He had a bit of a problem to deal with first, though. Turnign to Glim, he gave the crane driver instructions. "Right, lissen up..." Uurgrin paused, not sure who the Ork actually was, "...lad. Yer gonna drop da wreckin' ball right on top ov Jamz, an' pin 'im to da ground so's I c'n 'ave a moment to address da boys wivvout interrupshuns."

"Oo's Jamz den, Boss?" Glim deemd it was wise to address his large passenger appropriately. "Oh an' da name's Glim; I'm a Burnaboy."

Uurgrin chuckled roughly, "Burnaboy, aye? Bet dere's never a dull moment when you're 'round hur hur hur." He pointed with the handle of his axe to the Mega Armoured Nob to the far left of the crane, nearly punching a hole in the window. "Dat's Jamz, da big stompy git in blue."

Something stirred in the pits of Glim's stomach; he was hoping to avoid that destructive Ork at all costs. Nevertheless, he did as he was told and swung the crane around and ploughed towards the Nob.

Jamz and Oric had clobbered most of the Goff Nobs, and were surrounded by dozens of Goff boys; dozens more were confused, unsure who was the new Boss.

"I's ya new Boss!" Jamz yelled at a disobedient Ork. The mouthy Goff kept his distance from Jamz to avoid being splattered. "I killed Kargust, look, I gots 'is 'elmet!" Jamz held up what was left of the flattened metal icon. It wasn't particularly impressive anymore, minus its demon horns and unable to encompass one's head.

Angry and extremely volatile, Jamz lost his patience with the Goffs and set about stomping and smashing any Ork who was too slow to get out of his way. Oric joined in, enjoying the sport tremendously.

The Goffs looked like a swarm of starlings with a hawk in their midst as they ran away from Jamz, confused Snakebites among them. The increasing rumble of _Destroya_'s engine was not noticeable above the ruckus. Jamz was an easy, slow target too inattentive to his surroundings to realise he was within a few metres of the massive vehicle.

"STOMP! SMASH! WAAAAA- OOF! Ow... 'OO PUT DAT DERE?"

The wrecking ball dropped and knocked Jamz onto his stomach, his back legs and lower back pinned by the metal mass; the thick armour saved him from being impaled in vital areas, but he felt something sticking through the back of his thigh.

Uurgrin stuck his head out of the cabin, bellowing at the Goffs. "Yer got two choices, lads," he yelled, glaring down at them. "Yer c'n join my warband, or... I c'n let dat dere Mega Armoured Nob 'ave 'is way wiv yer. Anyone 'oo chooses da second opshun also 'as da pleasure ov bein' dis git's target practice as well," he said, jabbing his thumb in Glim's direction.

To make Uurgrin's proposition even more appealing, Ongrat pitched in with his own threats. He appeared on Jawge's head, above the cab. "An' if yer don't stop fightin', I's gonna 'ave ter let out a bit more waagh energy – an' ya all know wot dat means."

There was some hesitation from a couple of the Goff Nobs, but a few revs from the crane made them more agreeable; even Oric reluctantly lowered his Squiggoth tusk club. Approving chatter broke out as Orks praised their new Boss, trying to avoid becoming the next casualty.

"Righto, Boss, we're wiv ya."

"Fine wiv me, 'ee's dead killy. Shoulda seen da way 'ee chopped up ol' Rippaboy!"

"Long as I still gets ter ride me bike, I dun care 'oo's da Boss."

Uurgrin jumped out of the cab, swelling up his massive chest as he listened to the praise. He walked over to Jamz, staying out of reach, and conversed with the still scowling Nob. "Oi, Jamz, lissen' up."

"What yew want?" the Ork replied tersely. "DAT FING STOMPED ME NEW 'AT FLAT!"

Uurgrin kept reminding himself that Jamz was more useful alive than dead. "Yeh, I knows. An' I also knows yer got a Boss somewheres, but fer now, I's yer Boss, righto? Coz I gots dis 'ere smashy trukk fingy, an' a new mob ov boys dat'll swamp ya if I tells 'em to. But dat's not wot I's 'ere to tell ya. Just fawt ya oughta know dat ya Dok an' Mek 'ave been taken as slaves an' they's not 'ere."

Over the short period of time that Uurgrin had known Jamz, there were two things he had learnt about this very traditional stompy short-tempered Ork: first, he was much like a squiggoth. You just pointed him in the right direction and let him plough a path through almost anything. Second was how to point Jamz in the right direction: either tell him some Ork stole his beer, or, tell him his favourite Dok and Mek were abducted or ranaway. Uurgrin didn't fully understand why this was so, but Jamz had explained during a boozing session that the two girls had to get to the Waagh or there would be serious consequences courtesy of some Ork Jamz called Mumzy. Uurgrin wondered just how big that Ork must have been to make Jamz do as he was told – he had to drop a wrecking ball on the big Nob's head just to get him to listen!

"WOT?" Jamz roared, never one to speak softly. "Only Cezzy-Po c'n stitch me up propa! An' Brudz aint been to a Waagh yet; an' she fixes me gubbins! Wot's I gonna tell Mumzy? I WOZ GONNA GET 'ER TA FIX ME NEW 'AT!"

"Dat's right," Uurgrin agreed, over exaggerating nods and pretending he empathised with the Nob. "So's we're gonna get 'em back, me an' da lads, if yer come wiv us. Rememba, we're still 'eadin' for dat big ol' Waagh ya told us 'bout, so we c'n get 'em on da way to et. No biggie Jamz. We jus' walk inta da Goff camp an' kill any Ork 'oo tries ter stop us. Yeah? Oh an' yew c'n bet yer boots dem Goffs's got a real good Pub – I 'eard dey drink more beer den even yew Evil Sunz!"

"NO ONE DRINKS BEER LIKE EVIL SUNZ!"

"Den prove et when we gets dere." Satisfied that Jamz had been 'pointed in da right direcshun', Uurgrin signalled Glim, and the wrecking ball was lifted off the Mega Armoured Nob. With the help of several Orks, Jamz was pulled to his feet once again.

"So wot's we doin' now, Boss?" A new Goff member of Uurgrin's warband asked.

"Get da trukks," Uurgrin said addressing the warband, "an' fix 'em up yer can. Dere any Meks 'ere?"

Only a single Goff raised their choppa. "Right 'ere Boss."

_Why's da Meks always da wuns ter get killed or vanish? _Uurgrin thought in frustration. "Go see Orlen; 'ee's da 'ead Snakebite Mek – ov'r dere, ee's already fixin' da trukks I see. Any Doks?" He asked hopefully. As expected, no one raised their hand; Uurgrin wasn't surprised. Doks were harder to come by than even Meks in the desert. "Righto then; da rest ov yew lot, 'elp get any Ork still alive dat's layin' 'round onto da trukks. We're leavin' soon as Orlen an' da uvver lad fixes our wheelz."

With the help of Glim and a couple of Goff Burnaboys, Orlen and the Goff Mek, who had introduced himself as 'Ludrik da Oily', cannibalised two trukks to repair as best they could the other seven. Several of the krumped Warbikes had been torn apart to aid the repairs as well, though Ludrik insisted that they put as many damaged bikes onto the trukks as was possible, for later endeavours. Orlen agreed, keeping his intentions of pilfering the wheels to install into new Cyboars secret; he didn't think Ludrik would appreciate his scheme.

Time might have been problem if it were not for Glim's foresight (he claims it was his intelligent foresight, but in reality it was his lust for destruction and fiery explosions) to sabotage the trukks at Shilf's workshop.

During the battle in the outskirts of Squigopolis, Mokka had rallied his small band of Goffs and bullied the freebooter Meks and Shilf himself into pursuing the fugitives; he may not have been able to teleport (a skill Mokka had never bothered trying to refine) but he felt the massive spike in Waagh energy – and the distinctive signature of his long time enemy Ongrat. Mokka was intent on hunting them down. The disappearance of _Destroya_, and the complete insubordination and treachery of his whelp of an apprentice (personal slave) had left the Goff Weirdboy boiling with rage. It was this animalistic essence, combined with his potent waagh energy, which made even Shilf bow to Mokka's whims.

Meks, Burnaboys and Gretchin piled onto the seemingly untouched trukks, rolled up the doors, and drove off under the command of Mokka. There had been something unusual about their departure, but Mokka had not been able to put his finger on it; and the few Meks whose gut instincts nagged at them kept quiet – Mokka was not a very approachable Boss.

The band had not gotten far when disaster first struck; the back wheels of a trukk had become loose and disengaged themselves from the vehicle as it tried to navigate around a corner. The trukk drove out of control into the side of a tall building, going up in flames with an unusually large explosion. Another trukk's back end blew up, sending its barbequed passengers on a joy flight in all directions.

Under Shilf's orders, the remaining trukks screeched to a halt; a switch had flipped in his head, and he realised what was wrong. "Somefin's blockin' da exhaust! No smoke's blowin' out!"

Mokka would have probably killed Shilf there and then if the Weirdboy's own ride hadn't blown up under his feet; Mokka had been launched into the air, engulfed in fire and riddled with shrapnel, crashing down onto the road before he even knew what had happened.

Orks fled their vehicles; Meks and Burnaboys alike knew that something ill was going on. One Mek had ventured a look down the muffler, only to leg it as fast as he could for cover yelling "Some git put bang-stikks in dere!"

'Bang stikks' being dynamite; Glim had counted on the heat of the exhaust setting them off, if the taped-together shafts had not caused the trukks to go out of control beforehand. Shilf ran, his beer belly bobbing up and down and his terrible looking squig hair transplant ruffled by the wind.

Many of the local Orks who had witnessed the fireworky event had got out a beer and kicked their feet up as they enjoyed the spectacle from their multistorey homes and shops; it was the kind of entertainment they regularly enjoyed in the big city. Not a single trukk the band had driven out of the garage that night had been left unscathed. Once the spectacle was over, Shilf and the remnants of his crew limped out from their hiding spots. Shilf saw Mokka lying in a bloody heap in the middle of the tarmac and walked over to inspect the Goff. The Weirdboy's head was still intact, but his legs were missing from the knees down, and he looked like a green, red and black Swiss cheese.

Shilf was very fond of revenge; and he knew exactly what he'd do to the obnoxious Weirdboy. "Oi, c'mere," he pointed to one of his Burnaboys who was surprisingly in good health.

The Ork trotted over to the Big Mek. "What'sit Boss?" He asked, unsure whether to expect pain or not.

"Go an' find me Bad Dok," Shilf couldn't help but smile deviously, "an' tell 'im I's got a present fer 'im. Make et snappy, we don't want bossy boots 'ere gettin' better while yer gone. Oh, an' tell Bad Dok dat 'is new pashent's a Weirdboy – a real tricky wun at dat."

The Burnaboy laughed with anticipation, "Oh, hur hur hur! Boss, I loves et when yer get Bad Dok over. Et's always a real treat ter watch yew two doin' yer 'andy work. Ha ha ha!" The Ork trotted away still laughing; Bad Dok was not the kind of Dok you called upon when you needed surgery, he was the kind of Dok you lent to your unsuspecting enemies.


End file.
